


haven't got time to pretend

by royalwisteria



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, a lot of everything, currently on hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke didn't think running her dad's cafe would be so very difficult but, alas, it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AvaRosier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/gifts).



> filling prompt from avarosier [HERE](http://stainofmylove.livejournal.com/239898.html?thread=6200346#t6200346) and this quickly decided to not be a one-shot, so here's the first chapter! I hope everyone likes it

It’s twenty minutes past eight, which means they are really inching closer to being far too late for opening. “God damn Wells,” Clarke mumbles as she pulls out a pan of brownies and then picks up a tray of cookies and puts that in right away. “Bailing on me last minute.” There are better outlets for her anger, she knows, but the most current and convenient one is her best friend.

Someone knocks on the back door and, heaving a huge sigh of relief, Clarke flings it open. “Jasper, Monty, in, now.”

“Whoa, calm down, pretty lady,” Jasper grumbles, though Clarke hears them both follow her in.

“Can you open for me?” She asks, grabbing two aprons and tossing them at the young men behind her. “Wells bailed and I’m alone.”

“He bailed?” Monty asks incredulously.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Clarke says shortly. “But I’m twenty minutes late and I still have to finish the cinnamon rolls.”

“We got this,” Jasper says with confidence, and she almost feels assured.

“You remember how the espresso machine works, right?” She follows them into the sitting area, where the walls are the yellow of her dad’s choosing, as is most of the decor. Monty nods, already fiddling with buttons; Jasper shrugs. She can tell this is going to be a long day, but she knew that when Wells called her eleven last night to tell her he couldn’t make it. ‘Urgent family business’ he said, which is an excuse Clarke can accept if told earlier than seven pm the day before.

“And open,” she murmurs to herself as she unlocks the door and flips the sign. The weather is grey, clouds hanging low and warning of rain sometime this day. Her weather app had foretold thunder, which Clarke really hopes doesn’t happen because she’s secretly sort of absolutely terrified of thunder. She hates it.

The street is fairly empty, but the first rush comes around nine. She knows; she’s done this for years after all. “Okay, another day,” she murmurs again and returns to the kitchen. Jasper is messing with the cash register and Monty seems to be making himself his own cup of coffee. She won’t begrudge him that. Wells called her eleven pm and Clarke called these two fifteen minutes later near to tears.

“Thanks, by the way,” she says, embarrassment tinging her cheeks. “This means the world to me.”

“That’s what friends are for, right? Want coffee?” Monty asks, whizzing some whipped cream into his cup.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Maybe later, when I can take a break?”

“Of course, my princess,” Monty says winking.

“When the cinnamon rolls are done, can I grab one?” Jasper says, scribbling something on a paper with the shop sharpie.

“Yeah, of course, whatever you need. Or, well, want.”

“How ‘bout your dad’s super secret marble cheesecake brownie recipe?”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke enters the kitchen. “Yeah right.”

“It was worth a shot!”

The cinnamon rolls have risen beautifully in their trays and smell deliciously of yeast and cinnamon. She pops them into the preheated oven that was waiting for them and hears the bell on the front door tinkle, indicating a customer. Which is good. Really, it is, despite the misgivings Clarke has (has had) since her dad died. She blocks out the noise of Jasper taking the customer’s order and Monty making the coffee in favor of taking care of the brownies she had taken out earlier. The pan has cooled down enough by now and she sets about cutting them out. They’re her dad’s recipe, the good-enough-to-be-patented one, and they always taste of home to her. The bell tinkles as she finishes arranging the slices on a platter, leaving some behind for later today, and takes it to the counter.

“Open the display for me?” She asks Monty, who readily complies. “Thanks.”

“Are those—?”

Carefully sliding the platter into the correct spot, she replies, “Yep, my dad’s recipe. You guys got everything you need?” As she turns she spies pieces of paper pinned to their aprons and she grins. “Jasper, aka Luigi and Monty, aka Mario. You guys.”

“Hey, don’t be dissing the names. We thought long and hard about them,” Jasper protests.

“You played Brawl last night and loser got Luigi, right?”

“Nothing wrong with Luigi,” Jasper says with false bravado. “Green’s always been my color anyways.”

“You asked for seven rematches,” Monty snorts.

“I did not!”

“Did too.”

Clarke sighs and the bell rings. “Okay, I’m heading back to the kitchen. Be nice.”

“Wait, we have a name tag for you too,” Monty hisses, Clarke turning at the door to give him an exasperated look. “Here!”

She takes the piece of paper with a raised eyebrow and the other rises when she reads it. “Princess Peach? Are you kidding me?”

“No, isn’t it great?” Monty asks, eyes so close to sparkling Clarke’s concerned. “We got the Mario Bros and their princess! It’s perfect!”

She runs a thumb over the paper and gives in. “Fine. Get me a pin.”

Monty passes her one and Clarke goes a little cross-eyed trying to pin it right.

“Hey, Clarke?” Jasper asks and she turns to face him, self-consciously patting the new name-tag. “He’d like to know when the cinnamon rolls are done.”

“Oh, um,” Clarke murmurs, glancing at her watch and gives the customer an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but they’ll be around forty minutes. Is there anything else we can get you?”

The man looks unimpressed and one of his eyebrows goes up. “No cinnamon rolls, huh,” he murmurs and glances at the display case. “Wait, screw the cinnamon rolls, give me a couple of those brownies.”

“Right away,” Jasper says, complying. “Will your order be for here or to go?”

“To go,” the customer says quietly, staring at the brownies that Jasper quickly wraps up. “By the way, what happened to the older guy?”

“I’m sorry?” Clarke asks. “Which older guy?”

“You know, this tall?” He says with a hand gesture, a disparaging look on his face. “He owns the place.”

She can’t breathe for a moment. Monty squeezes her shoulder and Jasper glances back and forth between the two of them. “He— he was my dad. He died, five months ago.”

All aggression disappears from his face and he looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve been out of the country for a year and just got back recently. He was a wonderful man—” His eyes dip to her name tag and his mouth quirks up. “Princess.”

“Clarke, my name’s Clarke,” she quickly says, blushing in embarassment and glaring at Monty.

“Princess suits you better,” he says with a wide smile, taking the paper bag and laying down the money. “I’ll see you around, Princess.”

“It’s Clarke,” she says faintly. The bell rings as he leaves and the moment the door closes, both Monty and Jasper turn to her.  
  
“It’s Clarke? You _need_ to work on your game,” Monty laughs, swinging an arm around her shoulder.

“Yeah, I mean, did you _see_ him? Man, Clarke, if you don’t go for him, I will. And I’m straight, like super straight, except for that one time when—”

“We don’t talk about that,” Monty says flatly next to her ear. “Didn’t we make a solemn pinky swear?”

“Yeah, but, Clarke! This is gonna be something.”

“He knew my dad,” is all she can manage to get out. Her two best friends quiet immediately and Monty’s arm turns into a hug. “How did—”

“Shh,” Jasper murmurs, coming to them and starting a group hug. “He said it himself. He’s been out of the country, he might have been a regular, something like that.”

Her fists clenches around their aprons, but then she has to be someone else and her fingers slowly unfurl. “I need to get the cookies,” she says and they back off immediately. She doesn’t like this Clarke, the one that is all business, but she likes the emotional mess Clarke, the one who hasn’t dealt with anything that’s happened in the last year, even less.

She avoids their eyes as she returns to the kitchen. The cookies are calling, she can almost hear the oven’s shrill ring, and she needs to prepare for the lunch rush, hours away though it is.

 

 

Finn is waiting by the back door at the end of the day and it is the last thing she wants after a truly exhausting day. Jasper and Monty left an hour ago. After repeated assurances that she can close up just fine on her own failed, she eventually dragged them out by their ears and kicked them out with a promise to pay them for their work later.

“What,” Clarke sighs, turning the key in the lock and twisting the handle to double-check.

“Raven— we’re having a dinner, later this week.”

He looks good. He _always_ looks good, the right side of disheveled that makes him exactly her type and a smile that sets her at ease. Ever since their disastrous break-up, if she can even call it that, his smile has only caused her to feel guilt.

“Good for you,” she grumbles, stashing the key in a little pocket in her purse and starting to walk. “Enjoy a nice, wonderful, steak.”

“Raven wants to invite you.”

She stops and, shocked, turns to face him. “Invite me. You want me, your dirty little secret, to join you and your girlfriend for dinner?”

“It was her idea,” Finn protests, stepping closer and grabbing her hands. He holds them between them and she wishes she could be strong and push him away, but if she were to touch him it would not end in pushing him away. “She’s inviting another friend of hers too.”

“Finn, this is a bad idea.”

“I want you to come too, of course,” Finn continues, ignoring her comment. “Because I want us to be friends. We’re friends, right?”

She searches his face and sees honesty, but she doesn’t know how much she can trust her gut telling her to trust him. Her mind tells her it’s not a good idea, that everything went to hell before and then sunk lower afterwards, but Clarke is nodding despite it. “Sure. Fine. I’ll go.”

“Great.” Finn smiles widely, joyously; Clarke smiles back helplessly. “Wonderful. Let me walk you to your car.”

Her smile drops. “No. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

His smile drops, but it does so in increments; it goes from grin, to smile, to quirk, to gone. “What— why not?”

“Because you can’t, okay?” He literally cannot, because she hasn’t told anyone she sold her car and has been getting around by bus.

“Clarke, I thought—”

“It’s fine, really, you need to go in the other direction, right? Call me later, or text, with the details. Bye.”

Quickly, she walks away and is grateful he doesn’t continue following her.

 

 

Wells shows up the next morning and Clarke is so grateful she doesn’t ask pointed questions about his ‘urgent family business.’ “Let’s open up on time today,” she says as she ties the apron behind her back.

“You opened late yesterday?”

She shrugs and doesn’t answer beyond that. “Can you get started on the cinnamon rolls? I’ll work on the brownies.”

Wells nods, finishing tying off his own apron with his eyes on her. She ignores it, and they bake in companionable silence until it hits eight. She wipes the flour on her hands on her apron and ignores the weird smudges that are created.

“I’ll go ahead and open, you good back here?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Wells tells her, concentrating on popping the cinnamon rolls out neatly.

Sunlight is spilling into the cafe, which Clarke takes as a good sign. “Today will be a good day,” she murmurs to herself as she flips the sign and unlocks the door. Positive thinking is something her dad had advocated.

The espresso machine is up and running and the register is ready; she ducks her head into the kitchen to ask Wells, “Want a coffee?”

“A double shot would be awesome,” he calls back, now adding the drizzle to the cinnamon rolls.

“On it,” she replies and makes his coffee first, setting it just inside the kitchen and tells him it’s done. Then she proceeds to make her favorite coffee, which she only does when alone. She’s not embarrassed by it; she’s just sick of all the teasing and being called ‘girly’ for it. From strangers she doesn’t care, but her friends always tease her. It’s a mocha with almond and raspberry syrup, no whipped cream. It’s all her favorite chocolate flavors in one.

With no one in yet, Clarke takes out the accounting book and starts going over numbers. Sometime during this, Wells comes out with the cinnamon rolls and the brownies and slots them into place. She wasn’t even a business or accounting major, but look at her now. Look at what all those science courses and expensive med school classes have done for her, standing in a coffee shop she never expressly wanted. Sighing, she flips absently through the pages and ignores how they don’t break red very often. They lost a lot of regulars when they were closed right after her dad’s death and it’s that causing their slide into bankruptcy. As her mom says: if only you stayed in school.

But she couldn’t let her mom sell this place. She couldn’t give up her dad’s biggest joy and treasure for something she was doing mostly half-heartedly.

The bell rings and she glances up, sliding the book under the counter. It’s the same man from yesterday, smirking the moment he sees her.

“If it isn’t Princess.”

“It’s Clarke,” she retorts. “And what shall I call you? Asshole?”

He laughs; it’s genuine, her heart tells her. Her mind reminds her heart that it is often wrong. “I’m Bellamy. Have you got any cinnamon rolls today?”

“For here or to go? And how many would you like?” she asks, storing the name into her head with a snapshot of his head thrown back in laughter. He doesn’t set her at ease the way Finn does, but he does have the right balance of disheveled that gets her heart going.

“To-go, and just one please. Also can I have some more of those brownies?”

“Of course,” Clarke replies, pulling out a cinnamon roll with the tongs. “Just one, or two?”

Bellamy purses his lips as he stares at her. “One. I’ll start with one.”

“You must like them,” she teases, pulling out a cinnamon roll with the tongs and placing it in a paper bag.

“They’re food of the gods,” Bellamy replies with an easy smile. “Best thing I’ve ever had.”

“They’re my dad’s recipe.” She doesn’t look at his face, because she feels like she’ll know the look of regret and pity flash across his face. Instead she focuses on sliding one of the brownies into the paper bag. When she straightens and places the bag on the counter, putting the total in the register, there’s still a look on his face.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to say it yesterday, but Jake was a great man. I missed him and was looking forward to seeing him again.” Her throat blocks, everything seeming to go on pause, and she nods, glancing at the register, then around the cafe. The entire place is a reminder of him and his absence. “He loved this place.”

“Your total will be nine-seventy-seven.”

She feels his eyes on her and it’s hard to resist darting her eyes to him and, ultimately, she fails. He’s looking at her gently and kindly. “Okay.” He takes out a ten and offers it to her; she busies herself with getting his change, counting the two dimes and three pennies.

“Here,” she says quietly, offering the receipt and change. “Your change is 23 cents.”

“See you around, Princess.”

The nickname seems to press the play button, and it sounds like friendly-teasing rather than the slightly mocking lilt to it the times before. “Yeah,” she breathes, looking at him and trying a smile. “See you around.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy’s schedule is not consistent. The next day he shows up close to noon, a haggard look on his face Clarke wants to tease him for, but compassion holds her back. The day after that he buys a whole pan of brownies and smirks at her bemused look and stays in the cafe the whole day, eating the brownies one after another in front of his laptop. It’s also the first time he buys coffee; Clarke is embarrassed when people order macchiatos now, for no good reason whatsoever.

When he leaves, he salutes her with a smirk. She might have blushed, but she was definitely busy with cleaning a few plates, so she really didn’t. Besides, Wells was out front with her, making coffee for a waiting customer, which makes it even worse. She thinks he might have noticed, but Wells has always silently disapproved of all her boyfriends and it means nothing that he’s said nothing this time. After her ‘break up’ or whatever with Finn, he had shared his concerns about his trustworthiness and she had thrown a fit because how can he be a good friend and not share that type of concern with her? They hadn’t talked for weeks, and then there were issues with their parents and then there was the accident.

Finn contacts her that evening, when she’s sitting at her table with business textbooks spread in front of her and sipping a cup of chamomile tea. He texts her a simple message: _Friday evening, at our apartment, be there at 6 for wine and cheese!_ The ‘our’ catches her more than anything, because she used to think about moving into that apartment with him, but turns out that was never going to happen.

The next day it’s pouring from the get-go, which sours Clarke’s mood immediately because she’s nearly soaked from walking from the bus stop to the cafe. She used her umbrella, but her rain boots decided to rip that morning and had been forced to wear shoes that were only semi-waterproof. It’s shaping up to be a bad day, and Wells comes late which is unusual, and then she burns her first tray of brownies.

She stares at them for a while and thinks about tossing them, but she can’t make herself do it. These are the first brownies she’s burned in years and she remembers her dad laughing uproariously while she held the tray with two oven-mitt clad hands and watched him with embarrassment. He had found it the most hilarious thing that whole month: his daughter burned brownies she’s been helping with for years.

It stays there until opening and Bellamy shows up the moment she’s unlocked the door. She felt like she was soaking, but Bellamy is actually soaking and he has this look on his face that spells desolation. He leaves a veritable stream of water from the door all the way to the kitchen as she ushers him in.

“Go, sit down,” she orders, pointing to a chair by the back wall. Wells stares at her, tray of cookies in his hands, and raises an eyebrow.

“Really, Clarke?”

“Yes, really,” she snaps back and sighs immediately afterwards, placing a hand to her forehead. “Sorry, Wells. Could you cover the front?”

He doesn’t say anything; he just rinses his hands and goes through the door. Bellamy is sitting down, but staring up at her with his dark eyes. Hair is stuck to his forehead in curling tendrils and she’s fretting already. “Let me get you a towel,” she mumbles, more to herself as she hunts for something longer than a dishtowel. She can’t find any, so just tosses several of those to him.

He dries himself off with the towels and the next thing she knows, he’s wrangling the sopping shirt off. “Thanks, princess,” he says, dropping the shirt next to him and then he’s wiping his body.

He’s— he’s attractive, she’s realized this. She’s more than realized it. Jasper has been texting and snapchatting her about him all the time, asking her what he ordered that day and she tries not to reply, but Jasper seems insistent about something. Monty seems insistent too, though much less directly and with more care. They both know about Finn, but they seem to share the opinion that it’s time she moves on with her life.

She used to always go for guys with the weedy looking physique, with windswept hair and stubble; at undergrad, she was notorious amongst the pseudo intellectual types for flirting with all of them. It was hard to help because they were so attractive to her, but none of them were as muscular as Bellamy. Not even Finn, who was more muscular than her typical type, was as ripped as Bellamy. She never knew she liked guys like that.

“Here,” she blurts, tossing him an old sweatshirt of hers she keeps here for cold weather. It’s late May now, so she should probably think about taking it home, but it keeps slipping her mind; never has she been more thankful for her forgetfulness.

He looks at it and then smirks at her. “John Hopkins, Princess? Don’t think it’ll fit me though. I’m at least a foot taller than you.”

“Half that at most, and put it on anyways,” she pushes. It’s a struggle to maintain eye contact, an even harder one to not let her eyes dip down to see the planes of his chest and imagine touching it and feeling warm skin, but she manages. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

Bellamy snorts, but he puts it on. It’s tight pretty much everywhere; his shoulders push the fabric, it stretches across his chest, the sleeves are too short and it rides up on his abdomen. “A little rain won’t get me sick.”

“But you haven’t been sleeping,” she says, a little too impetuously because he’s now staring at her with a naked expression that makes her uncomfortable. “Sleep deprivation lowers your immune system,” she continues, putting on her business voice. It’s nearly the same as her medical voice from when she was still at John Hopkins. “You shouldn’t take your chances. I always have some Airborne, if you’d like some?”

She’s already moving to where she stashes her purse, because this gives her something to do with her hands, which is the biggest godsend in the world right now. Clarke digs it out and avoids looking at him as she then goes to the sink with a glass and prepares the medicine.

Bellamy’s silence bothers her, but she tries not to think about it. When she turns around, cup in hand, he’s standing near her with a hand extended. Stupidly, Clarke stares at it; he’s tan, it’s clear from the wonderfully warm tone of his skin, but on his hands she can see shades of it she couldn’t before. She can see the creases on his palm and calluses and— she’s staring. “Here,” she says, passing him the cup and abruptly moving away. “I’m assuming you want a cinnamon roll? I can get it ready for you.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says and she wonders why he hasn’t made some snarky comment like he normally would, tease her for staring. When she glances back at him, he’s staring at her over his glass.

It’s too much for her to maintain eye contact and she ducks to the front with her head down. Wells stares at her, leaning against the corner sipping from a mug.

“Who is this guy?” He questions immediately.

“His name is Bellamy and he’s a regular,” she says, bending down to scoop a cinnamon roll out from the display case.

“And you let all the regulars into the kitchen, or just the cute ones?”

She slams the display case shut with a little too much force. He might not question her dating practices until it’s too late, but he judges her professionalism or lack thereof. “He knew my dad,” she says shortly and returns to the kitchen.

Bellamy is standing in front of the pan of burned brownies, empty glass in hand, and her cheeks start reddening. “Oh god,” she murmurs, quickly hiding the tray from his gaze. “Don’t look at these.”

“What, why?” He asks, blinking rapidly, setting the empty glass down. His hair is still clinging to his forehead, but the tips have already started drying and he looks more damp than soaked now. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re burned.” Moving to the trashcan, Clarke grabs a knife and starts scraping them out. Bellamy stops her before she can get any out, fingers wrapping around her wrist and another taking the pan. She blinks up at him; his hands are unexpectedly warm.

“If you’re just gonna toss them, I’ll take the batch.”

“But— they’re burned.”

“I still want them,” he says, taking the tray from her hands. She lets him; he smiles softly at her, though after a moment it turns into a smirk.

“I look best wet, don’t I?”

It takes a moment to return to reality, though Clarke is already denying having disappeared into a fantasy at all. “Like a wet kitten,” she responds, voice a little too quiet. “Let me get you an umbrella.”

She gives him hers. There are no spare umbrellas in the shop and she simply hopes that by evening the rain will have stopped.

“You’re sweet, princess,” Bellamy says. “But you really shouldn’t.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Clark asks, “And why is that?”

“You hardly know me.”

This is the worst excuse Clarke has ever heard, and she’s heard a lot. _I didn’t know she was even coming back_ is the worst she’s heard. “You knew my dad, right? That’s enough of a recommendation for me. Now go, go and get some rest. Here’re the cinnamon rolls, and just take the brownies.”

Bellamy takes the paper bag and the tray. “They’ll get wet,” he murmurs and Clarke stares at his hands holding them for a moment too long.

She brushes arms with Bellamy as she crosses the kitchen to pull out a grocery bag. “Here. Now, seriously, you need to get some rest. Your health is important.”

“Dr Clarke, huh,” Bellamy smirks, putting the umbrella down to wrap the baked goods up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If you’re sneezing or coughing or look the slightest bit sick, I’m kicking you off the premises.”

“Aren’t you a little angel.”

“But, really, Bellamy—”

“I get it,” he grouses, walking to the door. “I do, really, I just don’t— Never mind. Later.”

He steps outside and opens the umbrella. The door swings shut behind him; the room feels too empty and turning to glance around the empty, quiet space, Clarke sees his shirt wadded on the ground in a pool of water. Bending down to pick it up, she stashes it in another plastic bag to take home.

 

 

The rain has not stopped when she leaves that evening, and she is soaking when she gets home, Bellamy's shirt probably soaked all over again in its plastic bag. Clarke knows she should take her own advice, but she’s always been bad a doctoring herself. When she gets home, she just knows she needs to call Jasper because she knows that this is the type of development he loves hearing.

Not that she’s really interested. She feels like she needs to tell herself this because the last time she fell into a relationship this quickly, it turned out she was the mistress to a relationship of five years. Clarke can find Bellamy attractive and will admit that sometimes there seems to be some sort of spark between the two of them, but she’s not ready for any sort of _actual_ relationship.

She changes as quick as she can into a pair of old John Hopkins sweats and a tank, tossing her clothes and Bellamy's shirt into her laundry basket, and is dialing Jasper on her cell when her home phone rings. The only person who calls that number is her mom; she turns her phone off regretfully and tosses it onto her couch as she picks up the phone.

“Hello mom,” she says and her mom sighs.

“Clarke, is something wrong?”

“I got soaked today mom, but otherwise fine.”

“How did you get soaked? Isn’t there parking near the cafe?”

No one. She had told no one, not even her mom, who is going to be incredibly pissed when she finds out. “Anyways, why are you calling? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just, I heard about a certain young man at the cafe today.”

Oh my god— Clarke can’t _believe_ Wells. “Oh yeah?” She asks testily. “What did you hear? That I was having wild, raunchy sex in the kitchen?”

“Be nice Clarke,” Abby says sharply and Clarke sighs while she curls up on the couch. Her wet hair sticks to the back of her neck and she bets anything she doesn’t pull it off nearly as well as Bellamy had. “Wells is just looking out for you.”

“Wells knows shit!”

“Language, Clarke!”

She groans, pushing her head into the back cushion. “Mom, I’m almost twenty-seven. I can swear if I want to. And it’s true, so.”

“I’ve not know Wells to lie.”

“What about me? Are you saying I lie?”

Her mom sighs again; on one hand Clarke knows she should feel bad for being so antagonistic towards her mom, because she loves her, she really does, but she can’t get over Abby wanting to sell the cafe. “You know that’s not it.”

“He knew dad,” she murmurs into the couch. “Mom, he knew dad. I can’t just—”

“Oh, Clarke,” her mom whispers and that seems to end the conversation. It’s an unintentional argument that always wins. There are a few more comments, and then her mom says goodbye and hangs up. Clarke remains curled up on the couch before she picks up her phone from where it had fallen off the couch.

“‘ello,” Jasper answers with an absolutely terrible British accent. It makes Clarke laugh, as is Jasper’s talent, and she sits up to cross her legs.

“That is the worse accent I have ever heard, and you know all the drama friends I had in school.”

Jasper chuckles. “Admittedly my Scottish accent is better.”

“No, it’s worse,” she flatly says and then bursts into giggles again. They subside a moment later.

“What’s wrong?”

“I— well, my mom called, but that’s not really why I called you.”

“Everything okay?”

With Jasper, straightforward is always the best answer. It’s not that he’s dense; he always gets it. He just likes playing dense. “Bellamy’s really hot.”

“Wait, I need to get Monty for this.”

“No, Jasper— Jasper, don’t even—” He’s gone, though and Clarke groans as she falls sideways. “I hate you. You’re a terrible person. Both of you are.”

A few moments later, there’s more static and Jasper says, “Okay, you’re on speaker. Now, spill.”

“This is about Cinnamon Roll guy, right?” Monty asks.

“You both know his name to be Bellamy because both of you are nosy little shits.”

“You love us though.”

“No. I don’t. It’s your fault he calls me princess anyways.”

“That is so cute though. I nominate you couple of the year.” They both giggle.

“We’re not dating,” Clarke nearly screeches. “I’m not ready for a new relationship anyways.”

“Clarke, sweetheart,” Monty says with his best ‘mother knows best’ tone, which is nearly as bad as Jasper’s British accent. “Finn was an asshole and you dumped him months ago. It’s time to move on.”

“I’m kind of, uh, having dinner at his place this Friday? Raven’ll be there too.”

“You are fucking with me,” Jasper says flatly, all lightness fleeing the conversation. “You can’t do this to yourself Clarke.”

“Hey, he said it was Raven’s idea! One of her friends is gonna be there too. It might be pretty nice.”

“You’re not over him Clarke,” Monty says matter-of-factly and she hates that he’s both right and knows her that well. “This is a bad idea.”

“Too late, I already told him I’m going,” she mumbles, scratching at the fabric on her couch.

“See, this is why you need Mr Princess Suits You Better in your life. Just treat him as a rebound.”

“You know I’m terrible at rebounds,” she argues weakly.

“Then it turns into something real, what’s the big deal with that?”

Clarke is silent, because, really, there’s nothing wrong with that. She just doesn’t want to date much. The cafe takes up all of her time; even on her day off, she’s working at the cafe, scrubbing away at everything and going through orders for the next week.

“He’s really nice.”

“And smoking hot. So what happened? You still haven’t said.”

Just remembering is making her blush. “He took off his shirt.”

Their shrieking starts instantly. “He did not!”

“He’s ripped,” she admits. “You should have seen him.”

“I’m straight,” Jasper insists, but he sounds unsure.

“Nothing wrong with being bi,” Clarke suggests. “Nothing wrong at all.”

“Not the point,” Jasper mutters. “Why was he shirtless? Was there pouncing? Tell me there was pouncing.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke says offended. “Why would there be pouncing? It was raining and he was wet and he just— he just took his shirt off! There was no pouncing.”

“You are so boring,” Monty states. “Really, really boring. Your sex is always vanilla, which just proves my point.”

“You—” She growls. “Nothing wrong with vanilla sex. How do you even know that?”

There’s radio silence for almost too long before Monty sighs. “Clarke, I guessed. You’re such an innocent.”

“You’re both gross and I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, wait, before you go—” Clarke waits a moment and then Jasper makes a terrible purr while Monty moans pathetically.

“We’re no longer friends,” she hisses and presses the end call button. She says that, but she feels warmer. Her hair is still sticking to her skin and there are damp stains on her couch, but that doesn’t matter. She pops a couple ibuprofen as she heats up some curry takeout leftovers and eats it while flipping through channels of crappy soap operas.


	3. Chapter 3

Friday comes without Bellamy coming by the shop again. Clarke has washed his shirt and has it tucked away safe in the kitchen, but she hasn’t seen him. She waits for him, trying not to be too eager, even though every time a customer comes through the door she feels a little disappointed it’s not him.

Friday is usually one of their best days though, and she’s kept rather busy until they close early. She hasn’t spoken much with Wells since it rained, but it’s bound to explode one of these days. Clarke thinks she should go to home to change for the dinner, but just thinking about going home to change for it is so off-putting that she tosses her hair and decides to go in her jeans and polo shirt. There’s nothing wrong with her outfit; it’s cafe professional. Totally okay for a dinner party. Definitely.

Walking from the bus stop to Finn’s place, nostalgia fills her. She has memories of walking down these streets with Finn in October, arms hooked and a hand in his pocket because it was getting chilly. The trees were changing color and the crunch of the leaves sometimes became a game; back then she was still in school and she would tote her book bag and would curl around him while pretending she didn’t have a full night of studying to do.

It’s May; it is spring. The lawns she passes are green and the trees have leaves and there are flowers, blooming pink and blue and a whole spectrum of beautiful. Her purse thumps her leg as she makes the last corner and she can see the apartment building. In one hand she’s carrying a plate of brownies because rather than a bottle of wine or the like, she brings dessert. As she walks to the front door of the building and buzzes, she remembers when she had a key and didn’t need to buzz in to enter.

“Hello?” Raven answers.

“Ah, yes, it’s Clarke?”

“Come on in! You know the room number?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Clarke wishes she could dislike Raven, but she’s genuinely an amazing person and Clarke likes her a lot. She had a tough childhood, a child of a single parent in a rough area of town. Now she’s studying for her mechanical engineering masters degree but she is still a down-to-earth, easy-going girl who loves kicking back with a beer and a silly TV show filled with hot men who have wonderful abs.

There’s the high-pitched buzzing giving permission and Clarke pushes the door open and heads to the apartment. She knocks hesitantly and it’s opened nearly immediately by Raven, who goes for a hug.

“Good to see you! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Her hair is pulled back into her customary ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones and long nose.

“It has been. I brought some brownies,” Clarke says, offering the plate.

“Oh my god,” Raven breathes. “Are these your dads brownies?”

Clarke’s smile falters a little. “Yeah, it is.”

“Finn has told me all about them! Come on in.”

She’s nearly pulled into the apartment and sees Finn sitting down with another young woman with long, straight hair. “Clarke!” Finn exclaims, standing up. The young woman turns and smiles; she’s gorgeous, make-up done expertly to highlight her features with a sleek outfit and Clarke feels a little dumpy looking at her. Her make-up was done a little after five am this morning and has surely disappeared within the hours since. Her hair isn’t as pretty either, blonde and in a braid that is falling apart.

“Come over here,” Finn insists and she goes, seeing the living room she hasn’t seen in months. It’s still well-decorated with tasteful bookshelves and elegant couches, all in muted tones. The first time she had seen it, she hadn’t matched it with her image of Finn. Later on, she realized why. “This is Octavia. Octavia, this is Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you,” Octavia says, standing to give her a handshake.

“Nice to meet you too,” Clarke echoes, giving the hand a firm shake. “I heard you’re a friend of Raven’s. How do you know each other?”

Octavia gives a little laugh. “We take aikido classes together.”

“Raven’s become truly frightening since she’s started,” Finn laughs and rests what should be a nonchalant hand on her shoulder, but she tenses up and the air turns a little awkward. “Let me get you a glass of wine.”

“Ah, so you’re _that_ Clarke,” Octavia says with a glint in her eyes.

“So, aikido,” Clarke diverts. “How long have you been learning?”

Octavia rises an eyebrow and Clarke knows that Octavia isn’t going to let the topic lay low forever. “I started in high school. I was being harassed and begged my parents to let me learn.”

“Oh. I’m sorry that happened.”

Octavia shrugs. “I’m past it. The bigger problem is my brother.”

“So you have a brother?”

“Yeah, a few years older. The over-protective type, you know?”

Clarke shrugs her head. “No, I’m an only child.”

There’s another raised eyebrow and Clarke is bracing before she even hears the comment. “So you always need to get what you want, huh.”

She has to take a deep breathe before replying. “But if I learn something’s not mine, I make sure to give it back.”

Octavia’s eyes widen and when Clarke feels Finn’s hand on her shoulder again, they narrow. “Is that so.”

“Here’s your wine. I know you like Sauvignon Blanc, so I made sure to get a bottle.”

“Thanks, Finn,” Clarke says with a tight smile, taking the proffered wine glass. “You have a good memory.”

“Come sit down!” They hear Raven call and they enter the dining room.

The table has a selection of cheeses spread across; Clarke sees her favorite, havarti, as well as gouda and more. There are also crackers and dried fruits. She wonders if there is going to be any actual dinner, or it really is just a wine and cheese sort of night. Well, she won’t complain about the food when it’s the company she’s worried about.

They sit down at the table; Clarke is relieved to be sitting next to Octavia, though she is across from Finn. It makes her uncomfortable to see him so clearly like this. Raven and Finn are obviously holding hands underneath the table, which only makes it worse. She fidgets and sips from her glass often; Octavia refills her glass when she notices it getting low. Clarke isn’t sure if she likes it or if it makes her nervous and tries to repay the favor, but Octavia seems to be a light drinker.

Conversation topics vary the whole evening and she is grateful they don’t land on anything that could sour the air. They also avoid the normal topics like politics and religion, which Clarke is also grateful for because she knows for a certainty that she disagrees with Finn on a few fundamental points although they agree on the little things. 

But then they take out the brownies and the conversation becomes about Clarke. She hates it when conversations become about her; at dinner parties with her parents, attention always turned to her. She was a good daughter who was following her moms footsteps. She was going to be a neurosurgeon, just like her mom, though if Clarke had to pick, she would rather have been a pediatrician. After she graduated, she took a year off before going to med school to help out those still suffering affects from Katrina, and that always gets a nice, adult coo going. She hated it, but permitted her parents to talk like this because it indicated how proud they were and how much they loved her.

Now when conversations turn to her, there’s disappointment that she dropped out of med school and questions that prove how little they know and understand her. Thelonious, Wells’ dad, has known Clarke her whole life and still tries to persuade her to ‘stop the silly cafe business’ and go back to school.

Now, at Finn and Raven’s dinner table, they exclaim over the brownies and Clarke’s smile is incredibly fake as she waits for it.

“I heard this was your dad’s recipe?” Raven asks.

There it is.

“Yes, it was.”

“What does he do?”

“Well,” Clarke says, tilting her head and looking away. “He— he used to run a cafe.”

“He died a few months ago,” Finn supplies softly and that makes Clarke bristle and tense.

“It was a car accident.”

“He taught you this recipe?”

“Yeah, he did.”

Octavia asks the question that nails the coffin shut. “What happened to the cafe?”

“I took it over.”

“Wow,” Octavia murmurs with an impressed look. It makes Clarke like her more. Her first impression might have been needling and knowing about how Clarke and Finn had a thing, but it seems that their impressions of each other have changed over the evening. “That’s impressive.”

Raven nods agreement but Finn makes a face and shakes his head. Clarke knows Finn doesn’t agree with her choice. He said, when he found out, that he understood her feelings, but her dad would want her to finish med school because that was her dream. Finn had met her dad even once. “Maybe, but she quit med school to do it. And then after that she was going to do Doctors Without Borders.”

Instead of saying something or puzzling out the looks on Raven and Octavia’s faces, she takes her wine glass and drains it. She feels the buzz from her various glasses of wine now, but wine-tipsy for Clarke is avoiding everything and talking about her childhood cats. They’re all dead now, but they’re still some of the brightest spots of her childhood.

“What do you do Octavia? What do you do?” She asks while setting down her glass and looking to her side.

“Nothing as cool as you,” she says, face serious as their gazes hold. “I’m just a boring old sales specialist at Macy’s.”

“Hey, that’s cool,” Clarke insists. “I mean, I haven’t got a clue about fashion, as you can tell. I haven’t got a leg on you, or Raven.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “I have terrible fashion sense too, Clarke. Don’t try that.”

“Yeah, but all those tight jeans and vests, the blazers, you rock them.”

Raven sighs. “This just means we need to drag you out shopping.”

“Who has time,” Clarke mutters while she grabs a bottle of Cabernet and fills her wine glass back up.

“Is that a challenge?” Octavia asks with raised eyebrows. “I don’t do well with challenges. It runs in the family.”

“God, no, it’s not a challenge,” Clarke snorts and takes another sip of her wine. “Simply a statement of fact. I happen to be very busy.”

“Come on Clarke, you run your own business. Surely you can take a few hours off.”

Not really, she can’t. Not with the way the cafe is doing. She smiles awkwardly. “We’ll see.”

“That’s how Clarke says no,” Finn chimes in with a grin. Clarke glares at him. “Polite to the last.”

“Be nice,” Raven hisses, slapping him lightly on the arm and shoots an apologetic look to Clarke.

“So Raven, how’s your coursework been going? I haven’t heard you chatter on about it yet, so I’m a bit worried,” Octavia asks, the the conversation thankfully moves away from her.

The rest of the evening goes better. The cheese is mostly finished and there are a few brownies leftover. Clarke insists Raven and Finn take them and, after a brief argument, they give in. When offered to Octavia, she raises her hands and says that technically she’s on a diet.

The two are seen out, but after that they’re on their own. It’s dark outside, but spring-dark. The air is warm and slightly humid, which makes her think it might rain tomorrow. Their shoes are a comforting sound on the pavement.

“How’re you getting home?” Octavia asks.

“Oh, bus.”

“Want a ride? I borrowed my brother’s car for the night.”

“He didn’t insist on coming himself?” She asks sardonically, because she has heard several tales of this brother’s over-protective antics from their childhood and now.

Octavia smirks. “He tried to, but I’m his biggest weakness.”

Clarke laughs. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good. I’ve grown to like the bus, what with all the people-watching. Besides, I’m positive I’d be far out of your way.”

“If you’re sure,” Octavia says with a shrug. They continue walking for a few moments in quiet before she speaks up again. “By the way, I want to apologize for earlier. You didn’t—”

“Don’t,” Clarke interrupts forcefully. “Don’t apologize. I deserve them. I almost ruined a good relationship.”

“But,” Octavia murmurs with a kind sideways glance. “You didn’t know.”

Clarke shakes her head. “I wanted him to be single, so I ignored all sorts of signs. His apartment was too well decorated and too big for a bachelor, but I wanted to believe he was one so.”

Octavia grimaces. “I don’t think you deserved them, so I’m apologizing. I know Raven doesn’t see you like that, and I should have taken the lead from her.”

With a sigh, Clarke shakes her head again. “Raven’s too nice sometimes.”

“She is, but not always. Let me get your number so we can hang out sometimes, just us two or with Raven.” Octavia smirks, winking at her. “Maybe I’ll get you out on a shopping trip one day.”

“We’ll see,” Clarke says with a wink of her own. “And according to Finn that means no, so there’s your answer.”

Octavia laughs loudly; Clarke hasn’t had female friends like this in a while. It feels good.

 

 

Saturday’s are always good days. The customers come at a steady pace all day and the cafe is filled with a haze of noise that means good business. At first it would be mostly empty, but as the months passed they gained new customers and some days they really do well; those days tend to be Saturdays. Some weekend afternoons Jasper or Monty or Jasper and Monty come and help out, which is a huge help because two people are rarely enough on busy days. This afternoon Monty is there, creating coffees and Clarke is ringing people up at the register. She is so into her job, working on auto-pilot, that she doesn’t realize the next customer is Bellamy until she’s given a nice, paper bag.

She glances at it and then up at the person and gasps. “Bellamy, oh god, I’m so sorry! We’ve just been busy, and—”

Bellamy laughs. His laugh is rich and she just really likes to hear it and see the laugh lines on his face. “It’s okay, princess, I get it. That’s your sweatshirt and here’s your umbrella.” He hands the umbrella over next and she takes it and the paper bag resting on the counter wordlessly.

“Oh, that reminds me,” she says a moment later. “I have your shirt.”

“Give it to me another day, princess,” Bellamy says with a smile and a nod to the people behind him. “It can wait.”

She swallows. “Let me get your order then.”

It’s a brownie and a macchiato. Monty makes the macchiato; Clarke fetches the brownie and rings him up. “I’ll see you later, then?” She asks and tries not to be hopeful. “I didn’t see you yesterday.”

Bellamy grimaces. “I was having sister problems. You know.”

She shakes her head and it feels like deja vu to say, “No, I don’t.” Then she remembers last night and talking about Octavia’s brother, and how they’d had an exchange similar to this.

“Only chid, huh,” Bellamy says handing over the money. “Thought so.”

She smiles one-sided as she figures out his change. “I’m not sure you think it’s a good thing.”

He smirks and winks at her. “Usually not, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

“I usually don’t think too well of people with a brownie problem, but I think I’ll make an exception as well. Just this once.”

The smirk turns into a grin and he takes the change, brownie and coffee. “See you around, princess.”

She stares after him, eyes drifting down to his ass and thinks that it would look better unclothed, before the next customer, an elderly lady with frazzled hair but a sweet smile, grabs her attention. A moment later Monty hisses at her, “Couple of the year.”

“I don’t like you, remember?” She shoots back at him as he gets an Earl Grey for the lady. “Besides, we’re hardly even friends.”

“So you two are strangers. Who flirt. A lot.”

She rings up the tea and the lady smiles at her as she take the cup and leaves. The next customer is a teenager who wants a scone, a brownie and a cinnamon roll. Worried about the kid’s sugar intake, she’s still required to ring him up. After that, there’s no one in line and all their sitting customers seem to be content.

“We don’t flirt.”

“It’s outrageous how much you two flirted, and that was just today. And the sexual tension? I was getting a boner watching you two.”

“You were not,” Clarke cries, aghast. “You were definitely not. That is totally against safety regulations.”

Monty shrugs, leaning against the counter. “Okay, I wasn’t, but I was close. You clearly like him, Clarke, what’s there to lose?”

She’s silent and, to do something with her hands, she aimlessly wipes down the counter space. “A friend.”

“You just told me you two are hardly friends. You’ve known each other for a week and he wouldn’t be smiling at you like that if he didn’t think you were either a, gorgeous, b, funny or c, I don’t know, if he thought you had terrible teeth.”

“I do have nice teeth.”

“You do,” Monty agrees with a serious expression. “Almost as good as mine.”

“I wish I had teeth as nice as yours.”

Wells comes out then, sweat beading on his forehead, with a tray of brownies and cookies. “Just out of the oven,” he grunts, passing them both to Monty.

“Awesome, we were low on brownies,” Monty says brightly. “Thanks, Wells.”

Clarke nods at Wells and he returns to the kitchen. Monty eyes the door and then gives Clarke a look. “What’s up with you two?”

Sighing, Clarke shrugs and turns to glance around the customers again. Someone has left and their table needs to be cleared. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about anything,” Monty states as she passes him with a wet rag. “It’s one of your most charming points.”

“Fine,” Clarke snaps, frowning. “But later, tonight maybe.”

“At a bar,” Monty counters. “I’m inviting Jasper.”

“You always invite Jasper, so how is that new?”

She’s at the table the next moment and there’s a rule about employees shouting across the cafe, so she’s spared a reply. But a bar doesn’t sound too bad. She also knows that Jasper will want to hear all about the dinner, and Monty already wants more than the scanty details she’s provided. Maybe she can give Octavia a call too, although it feels a bit too soon for that. She does feel like Octavia will hit it off with her two goofball friends though.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke knows for a fact that one of Jasper and Monty’s favorite activities is getting her really drunk. She knows this to be a fact because she has been told so by them individually and collectively on numerous occasions. The first one was when they were undergrad together, in their required freshman seminar, and they had grinned as she told them she had never had alcohol before in her life. She used to think it was about getting her to drink against the rules and the law, but she turned twenty-one and they still loved seeing her get drunk. Then they told her how aggressive she gets when drunk and how she had guys do strip teases and lap dances for her on her twenty-second birthday.

She does not recall this, but thinking of doing it does give her a little burst of pride. Like, hell yeah she had men giving her strip teases and lap dances. She’s the boss. Of course they were giving her sexual gratification, as they rightfully should.

The fact that Jasper and Monty are so gleeful about her path of wreckage is a bit worrisome though, and she flat out refuses to do shots Saturday night at the bar. It’s their normal bar since she took on the cafe, one near their apartment, that doesn’t usually attract a ‘young’ crowd. But the bartenders know them, the atmosphere is nice, and the drinks are good. They always get a table.

“And, you know what, no tequila tonight. Just some beers, maybe some vodka, rum, but no tequila. You know how I get with tequila.”

Jasper rolls his eyes. “Come on, that’s why you should have tequila in the first place. You need to vent, tequila’s your man.”

“You wanted that to rhyme,” Clarke says, taking her beer from the bartender with a smile. “And you failed terribly. You were nowhere close.”

“He wasn’t,” Monty insists. “It was simply a statement.”

Jasper’s shifty eyes proves her to be right. “Doesn’t matter though. We are here because we need deets.” Clarke gives him a look. “Okay, fine, Grammar Police, _details_.”

“It’s not about being the so-called ‘Grammar Police’,” Clarke grumbles, taking a sip from her beer. “It’s about being a functioning adult.”

“I have a job and I pay bills. In fact, it is with this very hand you see presented before you that I sign those very checks. Be in awe of my adult-ness.”

Staring at the hand in front of her, Clarke darts forward as though to lick it. The shriek that follows is worth it. “Wow,” she says with a sage nod. “Such adult.”

“You,” Jasper says shaking a finger at her from his other hand. “Are not allowed to use doge against me. Not. Allowed.”

“Too late,” she sing-songs, taking another sip from her beer. “Already went there.”

“Oh my god, what’s next? Good Guy Greg?”

Clarke wrinkles her nose and glances at Monty, who subtly shakes his head. Jasper continues mumbling and they all continue drinking their beers in companionable silence.

“Tequila, though,” Monty pipes up after a few more sips. “You should definitely have some tequila. It’s Saturday night Clarke.”

“I have work tomorrow.”

“Take a break! A sick day! You open late on Sundays anyway.”

It reminds her of Octavia saying she could just take a few hours off, and how everyone assumes that because she’s in charge of her own business she can take a break whenever she wants. Her mom hasn’t said that, but nearly all of her friends have. They’ve stopped inviting her out, and now it’s mostly these two in front of her and sometimes Wells. 

“You know I can’t,” she says tiredly. She loves the cafe, she really does, but it exhausts her. Her life feels fulfilled doing it, following in her dad’s footsteps from choice rather than blindly following her mom’s, but it’s the hardest work she has ever done. She thought med school was difficult, but this is worse. This feels more like real life, now that she’s struck it on her own without her parent’s support or approval.

Thinking of her mom’s approval, Clarke spontaneously decides to chug the rest of her beer down. When done, she settles her glass down and smiles at the smirking faces of Jasper and Monty. “No tequila, but I will go for some vodka. The night is still young after all.” They got here fifteen minutes ago and it’s now just past seven, which used to be embarrassingly early for them but is now more the norm with the ‘adult’ hours they keep.

She goes to the bar, feeling the beer she had just chugged slosh in her stomach. “Can I get a, umm,” she says, running a hand through her hair as she squints at the alcohol lining the wall.

There’s a distinct cough and her eyes dart to the barkeeper in concern. Then her jaw drops. “Bellamy? Where did— what are you doing here?”

“Me? What are you doing here?” He gestures to her and doesn’t look happy to see her, which gives her a complicated feeling in her stomach that is distinctly not good, but there are also butterflies because he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“It’s Saturday night, what do you think? But since when did _you_ workhere?”

“I worked here before— before I left the country, princess,” he says with irritation, though his words sort of stumble over each other. “It’s not like this bar only existed after you found it.”

She jerks back, stung. This Bellamy is different from the Bellamy she encounters at her dads cafe; it’s near impossible for her to reconcile the two. “Never thought it didn’t,”  she snaps. “Where’s Atom?”

“You know Atom?” He asks and he sounds so disbelieving that she honest to god wants to punch him. He’s so much nicer in the shop and they do flirt, despite her protesting that they don’t.

“Yeah. I do. He knows me too, I’ve been here often enough. Why don’t you call him up?” She just her chin out, crossing her arms in a pose of confidence. He eyes her, gaze dipping down in a way she is nearly sure is checking her out.

“Nah, I’ll believe you this one time princess. What’ll it be?”

He’s professional now. It reminds her of the divide in her between professional Clarke, emotional wreck Clarke, and the bits and pieces of whatever’s left. “A screwdriver, please.” She watches him grab a glass, face expressionless, and says, on a whim, “with an extra shot, please.”

Bellamy is startled by that and the glass slips through his fingers about an inch. The look he gives her reminds her a little more of the Bellamy she’s seen, and a little of the one who sat in her kitchen. “Are you sure?”

“What, think you know me?”

His face shutters down. She almost regrets it, but she believes in giving as good as you get. He thinks he can be mean to her, but that doesn’t mean she can’t be mean back. She can be vicious when she wants to be.

“Here you go,” he says, handing her screwdriver. “Enjoy.” He’s still expressionless, which somehow only makes Clarke angrier.

“Thanks,” she bites out and returns to her booth.

Jasper and Monty stare at her as her glass makes a too loud thunking sound.

“Everything okay?” Monty hesitantly asks looking nervous.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely fantastic. But guess what?” She asks, taking a large sip of her drink that turns out to be too large. The extra shot is definitely a little too much extra for her second drink of the night, especially when her first one was beer, but it’s too late. “Guess who the bartender is?” They don’t look like they want to know, but Clarke is going to tell them anyways. “It’s Bellamy.”

At first they looked shocked, but then happy.

“This is great!” Jasper whispers at her, big eyes nearly popping. “You should totally ask him out, or make out with him!”

“No, I’m not going to do either of those things,” Clarke hisses back, taking another too-large sip. She just wants to get drunk now, which she logically knows is a bad idea because she only wants to get drunk because she’s angry. “Like, remember how Finn is an asshole? Bellamy happens to be a bigger asshole. Like huge asshole. Biggest asshole on the planet.”

“Doubt that,” Monty snorts into his beer and then quavers under Clarke’s glare. “I forgot how scary you can be.”

She shrugs, taking another sip of her drink. It’s hard to swallow, but so is her shattered illusion of Bellamy. She had even thought about asking him out to a movie, or just for dinner someplace decent, but now it’s out of the question. It’s not going to happen. It’s hard to realize.

“Fuck, life sucks,” she murmurs, drooping. “Wells tattled about Bellamy being in the kitchen to my mom, Finn is as touchy-feely as ever, Raven is so cool I can’t hate her, and now what had become my bright spot is gone.”

Her two best friends glance at each other and then back at her. “You should finish that drink,” Jasper says seriously. “And then let it all out. You vent best drunk, or tipsy. Tipsy is fine.”

“I asked for an extra shot,” she whispers to him. “Should I finish it? Quickly?”

“Not quickly, but why don’t you drink a little more? Just to get, you know, happy?”

“Oh, I’ll get happy,” Clarke grumbles, taking a sip and swallowing it. She quickly follows it with another sip.

“I think telling her to drink more might be a mistake,” she hears Monty whisper.

“No, I think it’ll help get things in the air,” Jasper whispers back.

“I know you’re talking about me,” she tells them with a wagging finger. She shouldn’t be feeling it already, but she hasn’t had vodka in quite a while. It’s been beer or wine most of the time. “And I do not appreciate it.”

“We know you don’t,” Jasper says with his comforting voice. Clarke has always meant to tell him that it’s not very comforting.

“I— he knew my dad,” she says. “That really— it meant a lot to me, you know?”

“Oh god,” Monty whispers. “Is it going to be one of those nights?”

“How’d the night go with Finn?”

Clarke snorts and takes another sip. She can feel the alcohol in her body, making her feel lighter, like she could float away; she can list what exactly her body is doing to the alcohol and what the alcohol is doing to her body, but it’s hard to think of how it kills her liver when she feels this loose. “It was okay. I hate him.” She buries her head into the crook of her elbow. “I think I still love him.”

“Nice one,” Monty hisses.

“I should have gone with the tequila, shouldn’t I have?” Clarke asks, lifting her head up and propping it on her hand. “Vodka tends to make me sad.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jasper says with a soft smile. “It’s okay to get sad and have a good cry once in a while.”

Clarke stares at him; she knows his face well, the large eyes, prominent cheekbones and wide, agile mouth. He’s a good friend, but Clarke doesn’t cry. She straightens and takes another sip. “Yeah, maybe.”

Jasper sighs. “I figured. Why don’t you tell us more about the dinner?”

“It was okay. Really,” she mutters. “It was as expected. I felt shitty the entire time because Raven is so cool, Finn was being the man I fell in love with and Octavia was mean at first but then nice. Like. What do you want to know?” She takes another sip, bottom lip sticking out petulantly.

“Who’s Octavia?”

She frowns thoughtfully. “Well, Raven’s friend, but I think you guys might get along pretty well.”

“Did they like the brownies?”

Clarke laughs. “Have you met anyone who doesn’t like the brownies? Everyone likes the brownies.”

“Hey, I’m going to get another beer, are you okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just,” Monty says, glancing in the direction of the bar. “I don’t know, Bellamy?”

She shrugs. “He’s an asshole, but he’s still the bartender.” She then gives him a sharp look. “Just don’t dawdle.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She gets on her knees to secretly peer over the top of the booth, kneeling on her seat, and hears Jasper snort behind her. “Oh, shush, you,” she hisses at him, turning to give him a brief glare and then returns to watch Monty order a beer from Bellamy.

He’s wearing a button down shirt. She hadn’t noticed that before and it’s great that she hadn’t because maybe she wouldn’t have been able to say anything to him because _button down shirt_. “He’s so hot,” she moans. “Why is he an asshole?”

“Hey, where’s the girl who lectured me on objectification?”

“You started it,” she mutters and picks her drink up for a sip.

“You look ridiculous,” Jasper states. “Please don’t spill that.”

She can still taste the vodka, strong and the orange juice doesn’t offset it nearly enough, but she’s buzzing now and that’s what matters. Bellamy is filling Monty’s glass up and she sighs over his back and the pull of his shoulder blades and when he turns back to Monty, his eyes flit to their booth.

This is bad. Clarke nearly drops her glass but his raised eyebrow is a challenge that she will not lose. Before she was sort of crouching behind the booth, but now she leans forward and tips it towards him before taking a long, long sip. She tries not to making a gagging expression and wiping her mouth with her forearm seems to be a good way to try and disguise it. Then she raises her eyebrow back.

Bellamy looks, for a second, like he’s about to break into a wide smile or even a laugh, but then he passes the glass to Monty and says something. Clarke doesn’t know what it was, but she knows she doesn’t like it.

Monty sees her when he turns, a confused expression on his face until he sees her. Then he just rolls his eyes.

“He asked me to tell you to stop kneeling on the cushion.”

She eyes Monty, taking a sip and realizing that she’s had much more than she had, and notices the slight wiggle in his fingers. “He didn’t say that.”

He sighs. “He said to stop watching him.”

A gleeful smile spreads on her face. “Now that I believe he said, the asshole he is.”

“He seemed okay to me,” Monty says. “He seemed genuinely amused.”

“You’re now the enemy,” Clarke says while pointing at him and then turns to kneel on her seat again, drink in hand. “I’m going to out-stare him.”

“Clarke, I don’t think this is a good--”

“No, Monty, let her. I think this might be good for her.”

“Good for her? In what way?”

“In a letting off sexual tension sort of way.”

Taking a sip of her drink, she frowns while staring across the bar. At first her eyes don’t settle on Bellamy, although he’s the reason she’s sitting like this in the first place, because sometimes Clarke is a bad friend. Here Jasper and Monty are, worrying about her, and look at what she’s doing. She should be better than this, especially after all they’ve done for her.

Her eyes finally settle on Bellamy and he’s staring at her again, though he smirks when he notices she’s paying attention. She raises an eyebrow and takes another sip, this time doing it slow and showing off her neck. Two can play at this game. She hasn’t done it in a while, since undergrad, but she still knows it. When she pulls the glass away, she makes sure to lick her lips.

Bellamy looks stunned and she’s suddenly embarrassed. Was this not the game they were playing, of being sexually alluring? Of teasing? Turning to Jasper and Monty, who have started talking about coding something or other, she hisses at them, “is Bellamy blushing?”

Jasper’s jaw drops and Monty leans over to peer. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she insists. “Well, nothing _weird_.”

“He’s not blushing. He’s not even looking this way.”

Disappointed, Clarke returns to peering over the booth and takes a sip. Ice clink against her teeth as she does so and she frowns at her glass; there’s still some drink in it, but it’s worrisomely low. She doesn’t really want to go and order another drink again either.

“Did I drink this too quickly?” She asks her friends.

“You’ve been drinking it fast, but I think you’re fine.”

She glances back towards Bellamy; he’s looking at her again. His expression quickly changes, too fast for her to see what it was before it changed to taunting. It bothers her and gives her a suspicion that this asshole side of Bellamy isn’t all that real. She feels like something happened, or that something’s different. Swallowing and preparing herself, she downs the rest of the drink.

“Getting another drink,” she says, scooting out of her seat. “Keep it warm for me.”

“Clarke,” Monty says in a hesitant voice, grabbing her wrist. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” she breathes, grip tightening on the glass. “But aren’t you always telling me to be a little more daring? I think I’m going to try it.”

Monty’s hand slides away and she marches to the counter and places her glass upon it. Bellamy smirks and takes it. “Couldn’t stay away, could you.”

Tilting her head, she watches him. He holds her stare for a moment, but then he turns and puts the sink in a glass. He glances back at her, and she’s still staring at him placidly. He looks like he’s starting to get unnerved by her unsmiling stare so she finally does smile; it seems to freak him out more.

“What is it?” He finally snaps.

“You’re weak at the staring game, aren’t you?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I mean, if you weren’t nervous about something, you wouldn’t have been nervous or acted aggressively. You’re hiding something.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh no, the little princess thinks I’m hiding something, someone save me. Just give me your order and go.”

“I want another screwdriver,” she says and when he turns to make her drink, she appreciatively stares at his shoulders. They’re very nice shoulders after all, broad and whatnot, and it’s a crime for him to have such nice arms and, in general, for him to have his sleeves rolled up.

Then he sets his drink down in front of her and, standing there, she takes a sip.

He frowns. “Go back to your table.”

“I don’t want to. I mean, maybe I will,” she adds with a shrug, “but I’m gonna need an explanation.”

“For what?”

“For you suddenly being such a dick,” she says with a duh face. “The difference is like way too big. You’re in my cafe, all nice and suave, saying stuff like ‘I’ll make an exception for you,’” she growls in what she knows is a terrible imitation of his voice. “And now I’m here and, like, you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met and trust me,” she continues with self-deprecation, “I’ve met a lot of assholes.”

“Have you now?”

She nods seriously and leans over the counter. “Did you know I’ve been the other woman before?”

He looks at her now, not a pretense of glancing at her, and it feels like he’s _looking_ at her. Bellamy looks at her like she’s more than the blonde who runs the cafe he frequents, like she’s a person that is vastly interesting. It upsets her at what it took, but it’s worth it to have him look at her and actually see her.

“So, we can go several ways from here,” she murmurs, leaning back and taking another sip of her drink. “You can not tell me now, or ever, and I will be the most annoying person you have ever met, and I can be very, very good at that.”

“Really now.”

“Oh, yes, I learned from the best. And please, no interruptions until I’m done.” He rolls his eyes, and she continues. “Or you can tell me now, no big deal, we move on, the future an unknown entity.”

His eyes narrow as she smiles slowly, glancing down and back up at him. Running a finger over the rim of her glass, she gives her final option: “Or, and this is my favorite, tomorrow night we go out for dinner and maybe a movie. Then, if so inclined, I take you home and you can acquaint yourself with my bed. Sometime during this evening or, who knows, night and morning, you tell me what’s up.”

It’s obvious it affects him; he inhales deeply and his eyes dip from her face to the finger still running the rim of the glass and then the curve of her hand around it as she brings it up to take a sip. She knows Bellamy knows how to use his own sensuality because it’s so obvious in the way he walks and talks, but she’s not sure he’s ever faced someone who can throw it back the same way.

The last time she did something like this was with Finn, but fuck that, Clarke will listen to Jasper and Monty and how they think that she and Bellamy have a chance.

“Dinner sounds good,” he says staring at her lips as she licks them to (supposedly) get any of her drink off them.

She smirks at him; his eyes are still wide as he looks at her. He nearly looks frightened, but she can handle this. The alcohol might be making her reckless, but this is a power play she never realized she missed. Clarke’s not even sure the last time she’s gone on a date; there were a couple blind dates and maybe an OkCupid set-up she’s not too proud of, but they were terrible experiences she regrets. She’s not even sure the last time she had sex is. What she is sure of is that Monty and Jasper will be happy for her.

“Phone,” she demands with a sweet smile and outstretched hand. Still looking a little struck, he takes it from his back pocket and hands it over. It’s warm, which Clarke tries not to think about as she types out a meaningless text and sends it to herself; she’s pretty sure the text has more typos than words, but she’s running on adrenaline and vodka and she doesn’t care.

“I’ll text you the details,” she murmurs as she hands the phone back. Then, winking at Bellamy, who’s lack of words recently is a little concerning, she takes her glass and swings her hips back to the booth.

Monty and Jasper are playing a drinking game with a spoon, which Clarke doesn’t really want to know about, and spare her a glance.

“How’d it go?” Monty asks, concentrating on balancing the spoon on his index finger.

“Um, I might— I have a date tomorrow night.”

The spoon falls and Jasper cries. “Drink!”

“Dude,” Monty hisses, hitting him with the back of his hand. “This is big! Like, huge! Clarke has a date.”

Jasper shrugs, head lolling on his neck. “I get it, but rules are rules. Bro code, Monty. You have to.”

Monty rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his drink. Clarke takes another of hers; she can hardly taste anything, because the adrenaline has faded and her heart is pounding triple rate in her chest.

“I— I have a date?”

“Okay then,” Jasper drawls, elongating the ‘o’. The lolling and this makes her think he’s had more than just beer while she’s been gone. “You have a date. Congratulations. Tell us how it goes when it happens.”

She nods hesitantly. “Sure. I think I’m, uh, gonna head out.” Digging through her purse, she pulls out a few bills and hands them to Monty who seems to be the more sober of the pair.

“Get home safe,” Monty calls after her as she’s leaving. She waves a hand in reply as she leaves the bar.

Outside, the night is cool and smells like it might rain. Fresh air always helps clear her mind and she inhales deeply. Somewhere nearby is a dogwood; she can smell the tree’s sweet scent. Her dad loved dogwoods and magnolias and, most of all, he loved lilacs. She never understood why, if he loved these trees so much, he never planted them in their backyard. The first couple months, when she and her mom were silent and still in their house, she wished he had planted those trees so that it would be a long-standing memory.

But this seems just as good. This is like wisps of memory; for a long, long time she will smell dogwoods or lilacs, see the dramatic, beautiful colors of magnolia flowers, and think of him. Over time the remembrances will not be the sharp pain it was when she saw her first flowering magnolia or the threat of tears as she stands outside the bar and greedily searches for the scent, but something that makes her smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh I'm sorry this took so long to get out! I've had a really busy week with a couple huge presentations and an oral exam and haven't had the time to focus and get the parts of this scene quite right. at least it's a long one, and comes with lots of Monty, Jasper and Bellamy!! and, gasp, a date!!!!!
> 
> (ALSO I have a tumblr where I blog things and am super multi-fandom, but if you'd like to talk about this or the 100 in general, I'm [rosycheeked](http://rosycheeked.tumblr.com/)!!! I don't bite but sometimes I purr)


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke wakes up to her annoying alarm, head throbbing dully and sprawled gracelessly over her bed. She’s in her clothes from last night and she’s pretty positive that her hair is a bird’s nest somewhere on her head. But the biggest problem is the blaring of her phone because she cannot, for the life of her, find it. She scrabbles all over her bed, throwing her sheets off in her search, but that doesn’t help. Crawling to her pillow with a low, pitiful moan, she pushes it down on top of her head and—

 _There_ it is, tucked between her mattress on the wall. Her hands dart out and wrestle it out and turn it off. It’s 7 am and she got home— when was it? Sometime around 10. Maybe. Probably. She hadn’t checked any clocks, and it’s not like she had even spent that long at the bar before leaving. And there, on her screen, is an unintelligible text from a number she doesn’t know.

Fucking goddamit, she thinks as horror mounts in her chest. She’s not even over Finn, not properly anyways because distance is not a concept either of them are particularly good at, and here she is setting a date up with another guy. Clarke has this feeling it’s not going to end well because things for her rarely do. Crawling off her bed, she promptly trips over the sheets that had landed haphazardly on her floor. The fall does not help with the hangover and she seriously contemplates just curling up on the floor and pulling the sheets around her.

But Clarke is too responsible for that and she knows she needs to be at the cafe in two hours at the latest. Although she starts late weekend mornings and closes early in the evenings, as is the custom with most cafes, those hours are by no means relaxed ones. Last night was atypical; usually she’d be at home, looking over figures, cleaning her apartment, or doing laundry. And right now she really needs to do some laundry; she’s not sure she possesses a single clean pair of pants right now, much less clothes for a date.

She might have been drunk when she asked Bellamy out, but she isn’t going to back out on it and she is going to look as good as she can for it.

But first things first: some ibuprofen, then a shower. One will hopefully help with the hangover, and the other will do that as well as help her feel refreshed. After that, maybe she’ll feel better about texting Bellamy some details like she said she would.

She doesn’t. In her favorite, comfy and worn bathrobe, she sits cross-legged on her bed and stares contemplatively at her phone. Clarke’s trying to distract herself by thinking of all she has to do today. She has to call the company that sells her the mixes for the rolls and other foods; she has to figure out which coffee beans needs a topping off of; she has to do a thorough cleaning of the kitchen and dining area.

There are not enough hours in the day, Clarke thinks as she quickly braids her hair, staring at her phone. Water drips down the front of her robe and then, when she takes it off to dress, it rolls down her skin and leaves a chilly path. This, too, she ignores and dresses as quick as she can— she can text Bellamy on the bus or something, no problem. She can do that.

 

 

Or not. Clarke is not standing in the middle of her kitchen clutching her phone and thinking that napping on the bus was probably not the greatest idea, because she only feels more tired than before. At least her hangover is gone, but that is a small consolation.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard and she hears Wells push the back door open. That pushes it, and she finally taps something out and presses send without allowing herself a second glance because, if she had, she would never have sent it. Her text reads: _7pm, pick me up at the cafe_. That’s good enough, right? She continues staring at her phone as Wells picks up an apron and ties it around his waist.

“Clarke?” He asks her a moment later and she tries not to be conspicuous about putting her phone in her back pocket— all her pants were dirty, but she found a pair of shorts that are both work-appropriate and okay for a date. She hasn’t worn them in a while, and might be kind of short, but today promises to be warm.

“Yeah?” Oh god, she doesn’t sound suspicious, right? Wells has known her forever; he can probably see right through her. He doesn’t say anything though; they just stare at each other and, slowly, Clarke breathes. “Why did you tell my mom?” They both have been waiting for this, she can tell from how his body relaxes.

“I thought she’d be happy to hear how you’re doing,” he replies, rubbing the back of his head. “You don’t tell her _anything_ anymore.”

She opens her mouth to snap something in reply, but closes it a moment later. Wells has a point; she hates picking up the phone when it’s her mom and doesn’t call her first.  “And so it’s your job to tell her what I’m up to?”

He shrugs and grabs an apron from a peg. “You’re the only family she has left, so someone has to. Now, are we going to get started, or are you going to continue staring morosely at your phone?”

Wells doesn’t want to avoid the topic; they know each other too well, and he knows that Clarke will need to think about this for a while. She has been too wrapped up in her own grief and has hardly thought about what her mom is feeling in the past few months. It is so easy to do, to shift blame onto someone and then shove them away. But her mom is suffering just as much, if not more. Maybe selling the cafe would have been a good idea; her dad might have loved the cafe, might have not minded giving up a prestigious engineering career for it, but neither Clarke nor her mom had ever cared as much as he did.

Clarke grabs her own apron, tying it quickly, and gets to work.

The day drags on, not because Clarke is particularly excited for the date, but because she’s really, secretly dreading it and is incredibly anxious, but because of how tired she is. Her limbs are heavy, she nearly burns herself on a pan several times, and it takes her longer to process orders than normal. When closing finally arrives, Clarke nearly falls asleep sitting at the desk in the back. After her head falls on top of the pen she’s holding, she starts making quick decisions without her normal precision and carefully thought out reasoning. She’s done it for some months now, she doubts that it’ll come back to bite her in the butt anyways. She doesn’t have the time for this, because Bellamy will be coming in forty minutes and she still has so much to do.

Clarke doesn’t have time for the thorough clean she usually does, so she just does a quick swipe of the tables, then a sweep and mop of the floor. Wells, who had seen her exhaustion earlier, had told her to sit down and let him clean the kitchen; she’s terribly thankful, because now there’s ten minutes left and she wants nothing more than to fall asleep leaning against the pole of the mop.

Then there’s a sharp rap on the door and she jerks away, putting the mop back.

It’s Bellamy, standing at the cafe door. She thought she was nervous, but she can see nothing other than tension and anxiety in the lines of his shoulders, how his hands are stuffed in his jean pockets and the step from foot to foot. It sets her a little more at ease; whenever someone seems more nervous than her, it makes her feel less anxious. If someone else is more nervous than her, it’s nothing to be too scared about is how she likes to think about it.

Her fingers fumble with the keys as she unlocks the door, and Bellamy is staring at her hands which doesn’t help at all. “Ready for our date?” she asks as she finally pulls the door open. “Follow me through the back? I need to lock up.”

“Uh, yeah,” he mutters, stepping in. She locks the front door in one try, hallelujah, hallelujah, and tries to walk through the dining room with confidence. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t pull it off, but when Bellamy follows her into the kitchen, he looks too nervous to have noticed if she had or had not pulled it off. It makes her feel even better.

But he stops at the doorway; she doesn’t realize until she’s pulled out her purse and has it slung over her shoulder. “What? Are we going, or not?”

He looks absolutely terrified, which is so weird and— she just can’t take his mood swings. Honestly. They have become ridiculous. She purses her lips and runs a hand through her hair. “If going on a date with me was so scary, you could have said so. I mean, you didn’t even have to show, I would have realized pretty quickly you didn’t want to do this.”

“That’s— that’s not it,” he says quickly, taking a tiny step into the room, eyes darting everywhere.

“Then you need to tell me what it is, because I don’t want to make you do this.”

“You’re not— you’re not forcing me,” he says, eyes settling on her with a desperate look.

She breathes in deeply. “Okay, why don’t you just— wait outside. I’ll lock up.”

He nearly runs across the kitchen, which upsets her, but what can she do? If this is how it’s going to be, they just won’t go out at all. There won’t be any make-outs, and definitely no stripping him of his clothes and _touching_ — okay, she’s just distracted herself. Pulling her key out, she turns the lights off and steps outside; then she locks the door. Bellamy is standing a little ways off, staring down the alley, hands in his pockets again. He glances at her when he hears the lock click and he still looks terrified.

“Look,” he says as she walks towards him and he even puts his hands in a placating gesture. What is even going on, Clarke wonders. “It’s not you, I just— I don’t think I can, uh, date.”

She stares at him somewhat confused, very lost and extremely bewildered, which are all pretty much the same thing— and _then_ she gets angry. “What,” she says flatly. “You don’t want to go on a date.”

He winces, like this is exactly what he expected. “Yeah, I’m—”

“No,” she hisses, crossing her arms and glaring up at him. “No, don’t talk. You do not get to walk through my cafe, looking scared out of your wits— I thought you were going to, I don’t know,” she exclaims, gesturing violently, “shit yourself!” Her arms cross again, and she breathes deeply to regain control. “I don’t care what you call this, Bellamy. This can be a date, this can be a one night stand, this can just be goddamn dinner if you want. I don’t care what you call it.”

He stares at her; she fumes up at him. “Now,” she continues testily. “I was hoping for some pizza. Are you down, or not?”

“You’re amazing,” Bellamy breathes. It makes the anger drain out of her quickly and she suddenly feels vulnerable staring up at him. When did they get so close? Without thinking about it, she starts walking.

“And you have weird personality shifts,” she grumbles, hoping he doesn’t see the blush on her face as he utilizes his long legs to keep up with her. Oddly, he looks delighted at the comment; she tries not to look into it because it’s only making this situation _weirder_.

“Pizza, then?” Bellamy says a few minutes later when they’re strolling down the streets.

“Yeah,” Clarke says absently, glancing at what must be one of the last movie rental places in the city. “There’s a good place around here called Rico’s.”

“I thought you’d want to go to some swanky place.”

She snorts. “Think I can afford a swanky place? I mean, have you seen the cafe?” A moment too late, Clarke realizes that that’s probably not information Bellamy either should or wants to know. She forces a laugh, though it soon turns the air even more sour because of how obviously fake it is. “Forget it,” she mutters, angry at herself, pushing hair behind her ear.

“No,” Bellamy says, voice smooth in the dim lighting. Clarke glances over at him, but he’s resolutely staring ahead and doesn’t look to the side in the slightest to meet her gaze. “I should apologize, I— I made an assumption, a wrong one.”

“We cross here,” she says and stares at Bellamy while they wait for their green light. “I used to be the swanky type,” Clarke finally. “But if this is a warning sign about any sort of thing between us, I need to know now. Is there a problem?”

He finally looks back at her with an easy-going smile. “Nah, princess, no problem except for how starving I am.”

Relief fills her and the light turns green in the next moment. “Good thing it’s close by.”

It goes well, whatever this is. Clarke wants to think of it as a date, but Bellamy has a problem with that so it’s ambiguous now. But it goes much better than her nerves had anticipated it going; they get a large margherita pizza and a couple beers that turn into a few beers. They talk about a lot of things, but the conversation doesn’t turn personal even once. They talk about politics, food, the places in the world they really want to go to (Clarke: Istanbul for the culture and history; Bellamy: New Zealand for Lord of the Rings) and Clarke feels more flushed and the happiest she’s been in months. The last time she laughed to this extent of carefree was when her dad was still alive.

They don’t talk about her dad, because that is personal and she might, for all she knows, start crying. Maybe they’ll save that for a later— date. Or whatever. She doesn’t know, but when they stand to leave, her cheeks flushed with happiness and a little because of the beer and Bellamy puts an arm around her waist, she feels certain that this was somewhat a perfect evening.

Her first date with Finn— odd how, standing with Bellamy and feeling his heat pressed against her side, she thinks of Finn— was at an art museum. They had met at a charity function Clarke had been forced at attend at her parents side and she had been in a long black dress, sleeveless and a slit past her knees, makeup and hair all dolled up. They had been an intellectual couple, talking about war in Africa and the worth of contemporary and global warming, peace and pacifism.

Clarke had thought they had been perfect for each other; in a way they had been. They’d had fun together and Clarke had felt herself reaching to be a better person, a better version of who she was in order to be perfect for him. That should have been a warning sign; she shouldn’t have to be perfect for somebody. With Bellamy, if she were to be perfect, he would probably lost interest. And look at this, their first date, at a cheap pizza place. They first met when she was wearing her apron, next to no makeup, harried and wearing a name tag which proclaimed her Princess Peach.

Yeah. This is going to be better.

“Who’s paying?” She asks as they stand at the cashier. Bellamy’s arm tightens around her waist and he pulls out his wallet.

“I am.”

He has to take his arm away from her waist to take some cash out to pay, and Clarke takes out her wallet as well. “We’ll go dutch,” she murmurs and ignores the slight elbow he gives her. “This way it’s less like a date, hmm?”

They pay the cashier, who looks supremely unenthused by the two of them, and Clarke feels wonderful when his arm is around her waist again. She reciprocates and puts her arm around his and she remembers him stripping in her kitchen and the glorious view; his waist is narrow, but she can feel muscles as they move. Lean, then; the little strip show confirmed that adjective.

“Oh,” she mumbles, pulling away to frown at him. “I still have your shirt. Want to swing by the cafe?”

He looks like that is the last thing he wants to do, but he nods anyways. “Sure, we have time.”

She checks her watch at the comment— it’s almost ten and she stares at her watch in shock. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters to herself. Ten o’clock, really? She spent nearly three hours with Bellamy at Rico’s? She should be in bed already. “Actually,” she says with a regretful grimace. “I think I need to head home.”

“What, will your slippers disappear or something?”

“Definitely. My horses are about to turn into mice, it’s kind of a problem.”

He grins at her, though it turns soft a moment later as they turn to face each other. Her hands rise on his back, scrunching the shirt up and she clings to the fabric. His arms encircle her waist and they both lean forward. They kiss softly, like they’ve been waiting for it and are scared the other will disappear. When they pull apart, it’s just their lips and Bellamy is leaning down to press his forehead to hers. Her eyes flutter open and he looks wrecked, one decision away from a car crash.

It’s not the look she wanted to see after a kiss that has her heart beating worrisomely fast and she pulls further away. Her hands untangle from his shirt from where she had clung even tighter to him; she resists the urge to smooth the fabric down over his back and the sudden image of putting it in a shared laundry pile, a brief fantasy of living together.

“Thanks for the evening,” she says knowing she sounds stilted. Clarke can tell the blush of happiness and minor intoxication from earlier is gone. It’s a hard crash. “Though you still owe me the reasons for being a dick last night.”

He looks destroyed now, though soon he covers it with a smirk and a bravado that feels fake. She doesn’t try and push it to see if it crumbles; the thought hardly even crosses her mind.

“I do.”

“See you around, then,” Clarke murmurs and taps him light on the shoulder before she walks away. He doesn’t follow, which makes sense because she’s going to the bus stop and he isn’t, but there’s still a crushing feeling in her chest that is painfully similar to heart break at being left alone.

 

 

The bus ride home is interminably long and when she gets home there is a post-it on her door reading _Call me_. It’s from her mom and, in the first time in months, Clarke unlocks her door, picks up the home phone and dials her mom.

“Hello?” Her mom answers, sounding groggy and in the middle of work. Clarke knows that tone, from when she would call late at night in the middle of studying and ask for quick clarifications on medical terms and about what it was like to be a neurosurgeon.

“Hi mom,” she says quietly, purse dumped somewhere behind her and leaning anxiously against the kitchen counter. “Were you busy— I can call later, if you’re busy.”

She hears papers being shuffled around. “No, no, I always have time for you, sweetheart.” Her mom says and she sounds much more awake and even a little excited to talk to her. “It’s been a while since you’ve called.”

It’s hard to hear that tone, so cautiously happy.

“I’ve just— I think I had a date tonight, and just wanted to see how you were.”

“How was it?”

“Horrible,” Clarke mutters and there are the tears, pricking at the corners of her eyes and she uses the heel of her free hand to try and wipe them away. “He— he doesn’t want to date or anything.”

“Oh, Clarke, sweetheart,” her mom says carefully in that mom way that makes tears actually start falling. This is protective mothering, the type that tells Clarke that her mom would do anything for her. She’s missed it, despite telling herself she didn’t.

“I’m— it’s fine, I’m fine, it’s whatever,” she mutters, tilting her head back.

For a few moments, her mom doesn’t say anything. “Don’t lie to yourself, Clarke,” her mom says finally with a sigh. “I know it’s been hard since dad lied, but you don’t call me unless it’s a huge deal. I’m here for you if you need me and you know that, but this guy doesn’t seem like he’ll make you happy.”

“He did, though. For a bit.”

There’s another sigh and Clarke can hear the faint sounds of paper being shuffled again. “How did you two meet?”

“He came to the cafe.”

“Oh,” her mom says, realizing something. “The one from the kitchen?”

Clarke’s cheeks burn as she remembers that, of Bellamy stripping, torso elongated with his arms over his head and— “Yeah. That one.”

“Ah,” her mom murmurs in an annoying, knowing, motherly tone. “That one.”

“He used to come around all the time apparently, a year or so ago.”

“I see.”

“It was Jasper and Monty who put the idea of dating him in my mind,” she confesses after a moment. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have done anything.”

“Thank god for those two,” her mom says with a chuckle. “They push you into your best choices, really.”

“You just said he wouldn’t make me happy,” Clarke mutters testily. “Keep your opinion straight.”

Her mom chuckles again. “I’ll have to meet him first, and I’m positive you’re not ready for that. How’s the cafe?”

“Fine. It’s fine.”

“Dad would be proud of you,” her mom says and stops, though her tone indicates that there was more.

“But?” Clarke sighs.

“I don’t think he’d like you straining yourself over it.”

“I’m not straining myself!” She cries with a push away from the counter. “See, this is why I don’t call you!”

“We’ve both had long days,” her mom sighs, “so I’m going to say bye, and we can talk later, okay?”

This makes her feel like seven again, scolded because she had snuck across the fence to play with their neighbor’s dog. Her parents had been too busy at the time to properly discipline her and had sent her to her room until they had time to properly talk about the situation. “Bye,” she snaps and hangs up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god guys I'm sorry this update took so long D: I hope you enjoy it though and aren't sick of how weird Bellamy is acting ahaha it'll be explained later!! there're reasons. hope to have the next chapter up as soon as I can! (also: Rico's pizza place? on purpose.)
> 
> if you wanna talk, have questions, come find me on my [tumblr](http://rosycheeked.tumblr.com/)!


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke’s first date with Finn was at an art museum, but it was during the dates that followed that she fell in love. They also went to silly places; early-summer Finn took her to a beach three hours away and told her with a serious expression about failed expectations and making the best of a situation. Clarke had skipped her classes the next day so the two of them could spend the night at a hotel there, at a picturesque New England town with homey clam chowder. That night, a month into dating, was the first time they had sex. It was the best sex she had ever had, slow. tender, Finn’s hands careful on her body, fingers tracing aimless designs on her skin.

She’d always had this sense that they were more than just dating; there was this sense that this was it, this was what she has wanted all her life. Her boyfriend was cute, attentive, thoughtful, kind— once upon a time, Clarke could have gone on endlessly about him. To her parents, she dropped his name now and then and would wait eagerly for them to question who Finn was, but they never did. In the end, she never got to fully tell them about Finn before shit hit the fan and Raven came home.

It is a day she will never forget, calling Finn and the distant sound of his voice. It was raining, a dark November day, and she was supposed to be studying. Her books were spread on a table upstairs, a cooling cup of coffee sitting next to them and pens and pencils and highlighters— upstairs, a mess was waiting for her. She was tired, confusing certain bones in her mind, which was stupid and idiotic, her clinical work was going to start soon, she should know the basics of anatomy.

All she wanted was a bolstering talk with her boyfriend, and the talk was cold and ended quickly. That evening, Finn called her again, once more distant, and said they should break-up. Shocked, Clarke agreed without a fight. Later, she had called Wells and he had showed up with Dunkin Donuts, five different pints of Ben & Jerry’s because ‘I couldn’t remember what your favorite flavor was’ and all her favorite Meg Ryan movies. She laughed over _When Harry Met Sally_ , wished she could go on an adventuresome trip through France with a handsome Frenchman, and thought that Tom Hanks was literally the best person in the world. She still thinks that, in fact. Tom Hanks is a gift.

Clarke didn’t find out about Raven until later, when she was meeting an undergrad friend for lunch three weeks later and saw Finn sitting there with her. She didn’t understand the situation, thought maybe they were friends, but when they left they were holding hands and, just like that, she knew. Confrontations occurred later, but then her dad died in January and Clarke was so tired of everything, of life, school and grief, that she stopped caring about it.

In general, the past twelve months have been the worst twelve months of her life. This includes writing her undergrad thesis, applying to grad school and biting her nails while waiting for the results, that time in high school when she asked Jamie out and he had laughed and said no. It had been a mistake to ask him during lunch in the middle of the cafeteria. A big mistake no one let her forget for the rest of the year.

High school cruelty aside, Clarke is ready to leave all the bad stuff behind. She has a direction, a future she wants to pursue, she knows who her friends are and she is past Finn— for the most part. Bellamy was almost part of that, even if it was temporary because he seemed like he could have been so good for her; he would have had her laughing, curled over in stitches, he would have been the attentive type, hovering because he’s an older brother and cares for his sister, stuff like this. It kills her to know that it is yet another event in the string of shitty things to happen to her.

She blocks Bellamy’s number, and it’s why she has Wells working the register on Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday. On Monday, he gives her a slow, blinking look before he shrugs and acquiesces. On Tuesday, she asks again, and he frowns a little before saying, “You can talk to me, you know that, right?” He acquiesces again. On Wednesday it’s a little like pulling teeth, but it’s Thursday when he puts his foot down.

“He’s been here every single day,” he growls at her in the kitchen, shoving a tray of cookies into the oven. “And I have been covering your ass and telling him you were busy or something. You need to face him on your own.”

She frowns at him in the most intimidating way she knows, but Wells has known her since _forever_ and has never been intimidated by her. “He— fine. I’ll work the register.”

Wells sighs. “Finally.”

Noon comes and Bellamy doesn’t show, which Clarke hopes is a good sign for her. She serves coffee, plates pastries and other things she’s done for five months and prays to every deity in the sky that he doesn’t show, that three days will have successfully put him off.

But then he walks in, haggard, sometime past two pm and the praying stops. He’s tired, bags under his eyes, hair a mess. There’s five o’clock shadow, which is not good for her heart _at all_ and he’s wearing a faded Star Wars t-shirt and jeans and she is so charmed by this look. So charmed. He’s not even wearing glasses, one of her ultimate things ever— but sometime in the past week, he has become her ultimate fantasy.

A businessman is in front of him, and she ignores the way his eyes track her as she fetches one of the last cinnamon rolls for him and rings him up. He’s not looking at her, she tells herself silently, but her eye are inextricably drawn towards him and every single time his dark eyes are trained on her.

“What can I get for you?” She asks, keeping her hands still on the counter and putting on her professional smile. It’s easier than it should be; her heart might be beating crazily beneath her ribs and she might want to cry because she could have been so happy, but this facade has been worn through the worst times of her life and proven strong.

“A chance to talk,” he says.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t sell that,” she says with a razor-sharp smile. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

He looks disheartened, but in a moment he visibly bolsters himself. “If I give you a letter, will you read it?”

“It depends,” she says thoughtfully, holding a hand up to tap it thoughtfully on the side of her chin. It takes herculean effort to make it smooth. “Are you secretly Mr Darcy? He’s pretty much the only one I would ever take a letter from.”

He gives her a flat, unimpressed look. “I don’t know who that is, but please, Clarke, take it? You’ve not picked up any of my calls, or responded to my texts, so this is the only way.”

“Maybe,” she bites, forcing her hands to be still on the counter instead of curling up into fists. “You shouldn’t have been so upset about a date, so devastated after a simple _kiss_. Then this wouldn’t be happening.”

“Clarke, _please_.” He sounds so pained that she grudgingly nods. She’s weak, and he looks even worse than he had Sunday night.

“Fine, give it here.” He hands it over; it’s in a sealed envelope, and there’s even a stamp on the other side with a return address in the corner. He looks sheepish when she glances up with a raised eyebrow.

“In case you’d rather we communicated in a more traditional way.”

“Oh my _god_ , Bellamy, we’re not in the Victorian age,” she says, an unwitting smile crossing her face. Realizing it, she quickly returns to a frown. “But I’ll read it. Thanks.”

He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Now, for my order, can I get some of those brownies?”

She’s not charmed, Clarke tells herself. He just happens to be charming.

 

 

That night, she sits at her table, business books stacked neatly on the other end, and considers the letter laying innocently in front of her. Odd, that so small a thing could cause her such confusion. She wants to open it, but she’s also struck by the neat, small handwriting on the envelope. There’s her name, Clarke, on the front, no last name. She didn’t realize he didn’t know her last name, and it’s such a weird thing— she feels like he should know that, but of course he wouldn’t. They haven’t known each other for that long.

Her fingers play at the edges of the envelope; there’s a small stain on the back she can’t identify, and the corners have been blunted. She surmises that he’s been carrying it around for a while.

Well: now or never. Her fingers make short work of opening the envelope and she flattens the paper tucked inside flat on the table. It pops up on the two lines it was folded in. With one last thought as to how this shouldn’t matter so much to her, Clarke starts reading.

> _Clarke,_
> 
> _I know letters are trite, and I get the feeling that you’re the type to prefer being told things than reading them. However, this is something I’m not comfortable talking about._
> 
> _I wasn’t out of the country for a year; I was in jail. It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that me and my sister were adopted young and I went searching for my real parents. They didn’t want to see me and called the police. Angry and confused, I accidentally punched an officer and was sentence to jail._
> 
> _I was stupid and there’s no other way to put it. Thankfully, the police officer decided not to press serious charges, which makes me incredibly, incredibly lucky. But it’s why I was a dick at the bar: I had a reputation amongst my coworkers to uphold. It’s why I didn’t want to call our date a date: we all have problems and mine are pretty big._
> 
> _If you don’t want to talk to me again, I understand._
> 
> _Bellamy Blake_

Immediately Clarke wants to take a lighter to the letter, to the curlicues in how Bellamy signs his name, because that many is just _ridiculous_. This entire situation is ridiculous and infuriating and she hasn’t been this incensed by a guy since high school when some guy threw a couch from the roof of a ten floor building. It had landed on a car in the parking lot near the building and crushed it, but the fact it happened is the most ridiculous, most preventable thing in the world. What was the point of it?

It’s how she feels about this letter. She doesn’t get what he’s trying to prove. So, she gets it. He was in jail for punching a police officer; as things go, it’s a pretty serious offense. He says it’s why he was a dick and why he didn’t date her, but the amount it doesn’t say is larger. There’s no apology. There’s no sense of what he actually wants. She can get over the jail, because they all have dark pasts and if Bellamy is moving past his and doing his best, it’s not her business.

Where they are now, though, is nowhere. The slate has not been wiped clean, if that’s what he was going for; it is full of scribbles, crossed out sentences and misunderstanding. Pulling her phone out from her back pocket, she types out a quick text. It reads: _I am still SO angry with you_. She then sends it to Bellamy.

Let him stew, she thinks to herself, leaving the letter on the table and plugging her phone in her bedroom before she strips. Let him think deep about what happened.

 

 

Friday morning, Clarke is surprised to see Octavia strut through the cafe’s door. She hurriedly finishes the latte for the customer waiting, and then gives her a raised eyebrow. “Can I get you anything?” She asks dryly.

“Customer services suits you,” Octavia says seriously, eyes twinkling. “Just look at that darling smile.”

Clarke’s lips twitch. “No, but why are you here? I didn’t know you knew where my cafe was.”

“Oh, I asked Raven, who asked Finn. I still want to find out about what happened between the three of you.”

Clarke bites her lip. “I don’t like talking about it, or even thinking about it. You know?”

Octavia nods, bending down a little to balance her elbows and look up at her from where she soon props her chin on her hands. Her hands are delicate and fingers long; she seems to be even prettier than when Clarke had seen her at Finn and Raven’s dinner party. “I believe that, but I also believe that you haven’t had the chance to talk about what happened.”

“Can’t I just get you a coffee or something?” Clarke asks helplessly. “This isn’t exactly the best way to talk about this.”

“You were supposed to call me,” Octavia says with a pout. “You didn’t, so I came here.”

Clarke is touched. She hasn’t had a good, honest female friend in a very long time; she had a few girlfriends in med school, but it must be since undergrad. “You’re Raven’s friend though.”

Octavia shrugs, pulling it off even with her head propped in her hands. “I’m your friend too. She doesn’t really hold it against you though, by the way. She’s not too angry.”

Clarke sighs, running a hand through her hair. “She should. I’d be furious.”

“Raven’s a forgiving sort. She’d be happier if she heard what had happened though.”

Clarke snorts. “I am _not_ talking to Raven about this. She can be scary.”

“She has gotten pretty good at aikido. I’d look out, if I were you.”

“Jesus, can you imagine? With her ponytail swinging, she just takes me down with a chop.”

Octavia laughs, standing properly now. “Don’t worry about her though, she won’t attack you or anything.”

“If you say so.”

“We should hang out more.”

Clarke winces. “I know you mean well, but— I really am busy, Octavia. The cafe literally takes up all my time.”

“Clarke, you’re young, hot and single,” Octavia states bluntly. “You need to live it up. Come out drinking with me. Tonight.”

The bell tingles and Clarke gives her a regretful look. “Rain check?” She asks, flicking a glance at the customer. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she hisses. It’s Bellamy, of course it’s Bellamy, coming when she’s least prepared. She’s relaxed even, had been leaning against the counter while chatting with Octavia— who looks surprised, straightening and glancing around.

“Bell!” She exclaims with a slight frown. Clarke frowns too, and when she looks at Bellamy, he’s staring at the two of them with a gobsmacked expression.

“O? What’re you doing here?”

“Talking with a friend. What’re you doing here?”

“No,” Clarke groans, a hand going to her forehead. “You’re kidding me.”

“You know Clarke?” Bellamy demands, standing next to her now.

She sees the resemblance like this: the same coloring, hair tone and eye color. The over-protective brother, the sister who needed the car— “You’re siblings,” she states. “Just my luck.”

They turn to her, similar indignant expressions on their faces.

“You know Bellamy?”

“How do you know Octavia?”

They ask nearly the same question at the same time and Clarke closes her eyes, asks for patience. “My life is a soap opera. I swear. My ex used me, my dad died, I take his cafe up and my— ugh. I can’t.”

“Clarke?” Bellamy asks, and he should really be playing the nice card right now, he really really should, but he sounds impatient and irritated. “You haven’t responded to my texts.”

“How the hell do you know Clarke?” Octavia asks, voice going a little shrill.

“Jesus,” Clarke mutters to herself. Flicking her eyes around the cafe, the majority of their current customers are staring at the three of them; the ones who aren’t have earbuds in. Standing straight and putting on her professional face, she says, “Sir, ma’am, if you’re not ordering anything, could you please vacate the premises?”

“Don’t joke around,” Bellamy snaps.

Clarke grinds her teeth. “I assure you, I am not joking. Please leave, the both of you.”

“But Clarke—” Octavia says, with a winsome look. “I didn’t even—”

“The both of you,” she repeats insistently. “We can talk later, when you’re not disrupting my place of work.”

It’s like they both realize they’re standing in the middle of her cafe; they take simultaneous looks around the cafe and look abashed. “Call me,” Bellamy whispers, knocking his knuckles on the counter with a meaningful look. Clarke replies with a bared teeth smile. They leave at the same time and stand outside the cafe, staring at each other, before they walk off together in conversation.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” she sighs to herself as a customer thankfully comes in and distracts her. Then— oh, right, she thinks. She doesn’t get paid for this. The joys of self-employment.

 

 

That night, when she gets off work, Clarke stands at the back door, clutching her purse, for a few long moments. There’s always a long list of things to do and no day is an exception; when she gets home, she will go through the books again, trying to find where they can save money, ways to earn more money, programs, specials, the like. But she always has a certain amount of free time twice a day: her bus ride.

As she starts walking, Clarke pulls out her cell and dials Octavia.

“Clarke!”

It’s a high-pitched answer and Clarke blinks, taking the phone away from her ear by instinct. “Uh, hi? You okay?”

“I’m just glad to hear from you. This is the first time you’re calling me, right? Isn’t it?”

“Yeah, pretty sure it is. I wanted to apologize for earlier.”

There’s a breathy laugh and Clarke squints into the distance in thought. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Octavia cries too quickly. “Just— I mean, you? And Bellamy? I could have never! Not even in my wildest dreams!”

“You are drunk.”

Now there’s a little snort. “If I’m being honest, and I am always honest, you should know this Clarke, I am. Just a little.”

Clarke decides not to point out to her that she had said she wasn’t drunk just a few moments ago, thus proving her to be a liar. She figures practicality won’t fly right now. “Why are you drunk?”

“Well,” Octavia says, dragging the ‘l’ sound out with a flourish. “I’m at Bellamy’s bar right now. We just had a very, very long heart-to heart. We haven’t had one in ages! Ages, I tell you!”

She’s reached the bus stop now and she leans against the pole, smiling with her phone pressed against her face. “I bet. It’s impossible to get anything out of him.”

“Yeah,” Octavia mutters. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about you.”

Clarke really doesn’t know what to say about this, because this hurts. A little, it only hurts a little, she tells herself, but it hurts more than that. It reminds her of never telling her parents about Finn; she wonders if Bellamy, too, will become unreachable. “Neither can I.”

“Oh, look, he’s asking for the phone. Shall I give it to him?” She giggles and Clarke is just about to say no, don’t, when she hears Bellamy’s voice.

“Hello, sorry about this. Octavia’s indisposed at the moment, can I take a message for her?”

He sounds fond, achingly fond, like his sister is the end all, be all in his life. Clarke had always figured that there would be some friend in Bellamy’s life, but she hadn’t thought it would be his sister, whom she happens to like a lot as well.

“Uh,” she murmurs. “Pass along an apology for earlier, will you?”

“Clarke?” He sounds perked up. Why does he sound perked up—? She doesn’t understand him. “Is this Clarke?”

“I’m mad at you,” she hisses into the phone and watches her bus pull in front of her. She swipes her card as she boards, taking a seat in the very back row, which is empty. “Very mad.”

“But why? Why are you mad?”

He sounds earnest and a little sad, which is near impossible to be mad against. Clarke perseveres, pulling her bag closer to her abdomen. “You never apologized,” she mutters into the receiver, pushing the phone a little closer to her ear to hear the tones of his voice a little more clearly.

“I’m not sure what I should apologize for,” Bellamy says slowly, “but I do. Apologize— I’m sorry.”

“I wanted an apology for being a dick and for looking upset we kissed. Speaking of, what do you even want between us—”

“How about this,” Bellamy interrupts with a whisper, and _god_ , she shouldn’t press the phone so closely to her ear because this is not okay. He sounds sexy, and she just— “How about tomorrow night we go bowling?”

“Bowling?” She repeats faintly.

“Yeah, we can go bowling. We can talk then.”

“I’ll thrash you,” she warns. “I’m an ace bowler.”

“We’ll see.”

Clarke can hear the smile in his voice and she can even imagine the bashful head duck that surely accompanies it. “I’ll close shop early,” she breathes. “Pick me up at 6.”

“Sure thing, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh I hope some things are cleared up!!! the Blake background will be explained in further detail later.
> 
> have questions? wanna talk? come find me on [tumblr](http://rosycheeked.tumblr.com/)!


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, Clarke stares in the mirror and scrutinizes her face as she braids her hair; it’s her typical look. She has clear skin, and her eyelashes are a little stubby on their own, but her eyes are nice. She’s okay looking like this, staring solemnly in the mirror. There are bags under her eyes and there are fine wrinkles around her mouth and on her forehead that weren’t there five months ago.

She smiles and her face changes; her eyes crinkle and her teeth are visible and she looks much prettier than before. This is the Clarke memorialized in photos: happy, pretty, a bright young woman with a brighter future. Her childhood home is full of these photos. Every single photo of her is smiling at home; sometimes she’s looking at the camera and sometimes she’s not, but she’s always smiling.

The smile drops and she is another Clarke, a Clarke who will not be preserved. She is serious like this; she is a young woman with the world on her shoulders. She is also a young woman who will not be told to smile for the camera any longer. But still— She picks up the concealer from her bathroom counter and applies it under her eyes. Foundation is next, a little blush, scant mascara.

With makeup, she looks less stark, or just softer. She looks ready for something, and a little peaceful, the slightest bit serene. This is how she knows herself.

Clarke tilts her head as she stares at the mirror and remembers the bus ride home last night. She remembers Bellamy’s voice in her ear, the squeezing in her chest, and her cheeks blush naturally. Tonight, Clarke thinks, they’re going bowling. She has her bowling gear in a separate bag set next to her purse to take when she leaves this morning.

Without a second look at her face, Clarke leaves the bathroom. She’s already had breakfast— cross-legged at her table spooning Honey Bunches Of Oats into her mouth while reading the NY Times on her phone, all in her pajamas— and is dressed simply for work. Keys dangling from her fingers, Clarke picks up the two bags, the bowling one pulling heavy on her shoulder, and leaves for the day.

 

 

Wells glances at the bowling bag when he comes in and raises an eyebrow. He knows the bag; he’s seen it often enough when they used to go bowling.

“You’ve got a date tonight, then,” he says, pulling the apron on and quickly getting to work.

Clarke wrinkles her nose as she pulls a bag of sugar from a shelf. “Maybe I’m going by myself.” Wells face is inscrutable as he looks at her. “It’s with Bellamy,” she finally supplies, measuring out the appropriate amount of sugar.

He smirks. “You’re gonna thrash him.”

“Of course I am,” Clarke replies haughtily, going on tip-toes to grab the brown sugar. “Have I ever _not_?”

Wells laughs; Clarke looks at him for a long moment. The bag of brown sugar sits, nearly forgotten, on the counter, a measuring cup held loosely in hand. His hair is shorter; she can’t remember him getting a haircut. He also looks like he’s lost weight, his jeans looser than she remembers them being when their families had their Christmas dinner together.

He glances at her and smiles; it’s their best friend smile. Clarke can’t remember the last time she saw it so clearly. She smiles back.

 

 

A little before six, Clarke texts Bellamy to meet her at the back of the cafe. When six comes, she hefts her bags up and turns off all the lights before leaving. Bellamy looks uncertain where he’s standing, arms crossed as he squints at something down the alley.

“Hey,” she says and he turns to look at her, stuffing his hands in his pocket. She looks at him skeptically, because he seems to do that a lot and she doesn’t really get why. “Did you have a place in particular, or do you want to go to this place I know?”

Bellamy shrugs. “I had a place in mind, but if you have a place you prefer, we can go there.”

“Awesome,” she says eagerly, finally smiling. “We’re going to Dale’s. Did you drive?”

“Dale’s,” Bellamy repeats flatly, following her like they’re other date as she walks to the alley entrance.

“I told you I was good,” she reminds him. “But, really, did you bring your car? It’s fastest to drive, but we can talk the bus.”

“You don’t drive?” He asks as they pause at the sidewalk.

Her breath catches. “No,” she says. “I had a car, but I sold it.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal— and it isn’t. This secret she’s been harboring is out in the air and the one she’s told is someone unrelated. She hasn’t told him the context of the sale, but still. It’s like she’s giving him little pieces of herself.

“I’m just down here.”

Bellamy drives a dark blue sedan that’s more dust than paint job and has some faint, rusted scratches here and there. Clarke both wants to say something but knows that saying anything would not be good— she’s dated enough guys in the past who were over-protective about their cars and she’s not interested in finding out if Bellamy is like those guys.

“You said you were good at bowling,” Bellamy says when they’re in the car, turning the keys in the ignition. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” she replies cryptically before she starts giving directions.

Dale and her dad were friends, but Dale died when Clarke was sixteen. She had attended the funeral with her dad, dressed in the few black things she owned and held her dad’s hand the entire time. They had gone to his place every Thursday night, her dad’s night off and her mom’s busiest night, and played a few rounds for as long as Clarke could remember; she learned everything from Dale and her dad. She remembers putting the lightest ball Dale owned on the slide and watching it roll down with glee. Back then she had bumper put up and her dad would fake his concentration and keep pace with her, no matter how poorly she was doing. When a little older, she no longer used the bumpers, but she was still very shitty.

It took time, with her dad guiding the curve of her arm and the flick of her wrist. She had been bowling with her dad the day before her funeral, and it’s tapping an absent beat on her thigh that she realizes that she hasn’t been bowling since then.

For a moment, she can’t breathe. Her throat tightens, tightens, tightens as she remembers his trademark easy-going smile, how clear she remembers him laughing because she beat him fair and square even though he said that his arm was feeling off that night.

Then she hears Bellamy singing under his breath to Lady Gaga and it’s absurd, it’s obnoxious, and she laughs. She can breathe again and she tells Bellamy to turn left and they arrive.

“Here?”

“Yeah,” she says, hefting her bag onto her shoulder and giving him a wry smile. “Here. Doesn’t look like much, but it’s the best place in town.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, slamming his door shut and locking the car. “Oh god, I bet this is the only place you’ve ever bowled at.”

She shrugs. “It’s not like I was in Baltimore for undergrad, so no.”

“Fine, the only place in Baltimore.”

“Whatever, Bellamy, I’m still gonna whoop your ass so hard you won’t be able to sit down.”

There’s a strangled sort of noise as she pushes the door open. “Frey,” she calls to the woman sitting at the counter, popping some gum and twirling a few strands of deep red hair around her fingers.

She looks up and smiles widely. “Why, if it isn’t Clarke.” The smile falters, because she’s clearly realized what Clarke did a few minutes ago: they haven’t seen each other since the funeral. This makes two funerals for the both of them; Clarke remembers clutching Frey’s hand at both of their dad’s funerals.

“I’m here with a friend,” she says softly. “Got a free lane?”

“A friend,” Frey echoes, eyebrows slowing inching up as she looks Bellamy up and down.

“He’s here for a schooling.”

She snorts and jerks her head towards the lanes. “Six is open.” There are a few people here, but her favorite lane is clearly open.

“What’s your size?” Clarke asks Bellamy, half-turning. He’s frowning at Frey and, with a double back, she sees Frey licking her lips, twirling her hair, and continuously looking him up and down. “Frey,” she hisses, before positioning herself between the two. “Your shoe size,” she says, fingers resting lightly on his chest. “I’ll pick it up, just go ahead.”

“Uh, I’m a twelve,” he says, glancing down at her fingers.

“Good,” she says, now using her whole hand against his chest in a light push. “Go, sit down, I’ll get your shoes.”

He nods uncertainly and she turns to Frey with a disbelieving look. “Hey, Frey. Not cool.”

She shrugs. “Clarke, babe,” Frey says with a pop of gum. “Relax. He’s hot, but you’ve got him locked down.”

“I do not have him locked down,” she growls. “Now get me his shoes, you hussy.”

She laughs lightly and ducks away for a moment. “Twelve, is it? You know what they say—”

“I went to med school. A myth. It’s a total myth. Just give me the damn shoes.”

Frey laughs and hands them over. “You brought your own, per usual.”

“Course I did,” Clarke says, Bellamy’s shoes dangling from her index and middle finger. “My dad being dead doesn’t affect whether or not I’ll wear my gear.”

Frey softens; sometimes she joined Clarke and her dad, when the two of them were younger. Frey’s in her early 30’s now, but they’ve known each other for most of their lives and they care about each other. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Clarke mumbles, running a hand through her hair. “Call me sometime.”

“If you pick up,” Frey snorts as Clarke walks away. She gives Frey the finger without looking behind her and joins Bellamy at lane six.

“You know each other?” He ask, catching the shoes she tosses him.

“We go way back,” she says casually, unzipping her bag and pulling out her own bowling shoes. They’re not incredibly snazzy, but they were a gift from her dad years ago. Bellamy stares at them.

“You have your own shoes.”

“I have more than my own shoes,” she says, sliding her feet into them and lacing them tightly. She glances up at him, hair falling to frame her face and smiles sweetly. “You wanted to go bowling.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, standing up. She sits up a little to look at him; he’s looking down at her with something akin to fondness and it startles a real, honest smile out of her. “I’m getting a ball, do you want me to get one for you?”

She shakes her head slightly and finishes lacing her shoes up quickly. “I’ve got my own.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and she gives him a light punch on the shoulder as he walks by. While he’s gone, she pulls out her ball and tugs on the light sports jacket from her teen years. She tugs it on and fiddles with the sleeves until Bellamy’s back.

His face is disbelieving. “You’re fucking with me,” he says, putting his chosen ball down. “You’re on a team.”

“Was,” Clarke says, typing their names in. “This is from high school.”

“And you haven’t played since.”

She tosses him a smirk over her shoulder. “You go first, big guy.”

“As you wish, Princess. Wait,” he says, staring at her ball resting on the rack. “You even have your own ball.”

She sits, elbows resting on the tops of the seats next to her, ankles loosely crossed in front of her. His eyes follow the line of her legs and his eyes widen when he sees her shoes; it gives her a vindictive sort of pleasure. “And?”

“I’m gonna lose, aren’t I.”

“Haven’t I been telling you that?”

 

 

Clarke wins the first round by a narrow margin. Her fingers ache from the ball and her legs feel unaccustomed to the movements. Bellamy looks smug at first, but after the second round when she’s making strikes or spares every round he starts pouting more and more and more.

“Sorry,” she says with a helpless shrug they both know she doesn’t mean. He doesn’t look offended, but smiles widely and shakes his head.

“I need to step up my game.”

Her lips curve. “And not just your bowling game,” she says and because she has been _waiting_ for a chance and this has just fallen straight into her lap. “You still need to tell me what the hell we are. So, yeah, all your game sucks.”

He hefts the ball in his hand, cradling it near his abdomen, and stares at her. She can’t see his face clearly for the bright lights behind his head, but it looks a little like a halo. His hair is nearly the curliest she’s ever seen it and she wants to tangle her hands in those at the nape of his neck.

Then he tears his gaze away and towards where the next four pins he has to hit are standing. “It’s complicated.”

She snorts. “I told you— I used to be the other woman. I know complicated.”

“It’s not complicated like that though.”

“Then tell me.”

He escapes by stepping forward to finish his turn. Clarke recognizes it and it frustrates her; it seems impossible to get an answer out of him.

“Do I need to go to Octavia?” She asks when he’s back. He sits next to her and looks a little contrite, which goes a long way for her. Their sides pressed up against each other helps. Clarke suspects it to be a ploy, but it’s working nonetheless. She’s a sucker for touch.

“Nah, not really. But could you give me some time? To figure it out?”

“I don’t want to give you time,” she says, ignoring the unfairly puppy-dog look he gives her when she stands. “But I might. I understand that jail time can mess shit up, but, Bellamy…” She takes a deep breath and reaches a hand forward to card it through his hair. He looks surprised by the move, but not unhappy. “I’m a wreck, Bellamy,” she whispers. “I’m a wreck and you’re helping me stay afloat.”

“I am?” He sounds surprised, so surprised, and she brings her other hand up to card both of her hands through his hair, playing with the  little tendrils at her fingers.

“Yeah, you are. It’s why I want a yes or a no. I can’t— I don’t want to deal with maybes. I don’t have time to give you unless you’ll say yes. I _need_ an answer.”

His hands settle on her hips, thumbs pushing under her shirt to rub smooth circles on the bare skin of her belly. “Okay,” he whispers finally, just when she thinks she can’t take it anymore. “Okay. We can do this.”

“I haven’t had a healthy relationship in a long time,” she tells him, stepping forward her shins are pressing into the edge of his chair, his legs opening to allow her. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” he whispers. His touch on her skin is electrifying and she closes her eyes as she tilts a little more forward, her hands grasping his hair like a lifeline. He feels like the most real thing she has touched, held and seen in a long, long time; he feels more real than Finn was, he seems more real than her dad’s death and he grounds her in a way nothing else is doing for her.

 

 

They leave after Clarke mops the floor with Bellamy in a third round. Frey smiles at them as they leave, giving the two of them a lascivious wink when she notices how Bellamy is carrying her bag and how her arm is around her waist.

“Put it on my tab,” she tells Frey as she hands over Bellamy’s shoes. “I’ll be a regular again soon enough.”

Bellamy snorts and she pinches him through his shirt. “You’re a bowling nerd, aren’t you?”

“She has a wall of her favorite balls at home,” Frey tells him.

“Both of you,” she says, pointing first at Frey and then at Bellamy and then pokes him lightly in his side. “Need to shut up.”

“Have a good night,” Frey tells them as they leave.

They go get fast food; McDonald’s, because it’s close by and they both want the fries and a McFlurry. Clarke gets McNuggets, Bellamy a Quarter Pounder and they fight over the fries they have. They get an Oreo McFlurry they take to the car and Bellamy drops Clarke off at her apartment.

“Want to— wanna come up?” She asks, because yeah, she can do this now. They are a Thing now, yes with the capital T, because dating doesn’t seem to suffice for the warmth Bellamy fills her with, the confidence he imparts to her.

“Maybe not tonight,” he says, reaching across the gear shift to pull her close for a soft kiss. “Another time.”

She giggles and kisses him softly back before he opens his mouth and it’s no longer soft; her arm reaches across his shoulders, trying to bring him closer. One of his hands rests at the nape of her neck, the other runs down her arm and then he entwines their fingers together. Clarke breaks off and squeezes his hand, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles.

“I should go,” she whispers.

“Yeah, you should,” he replies. Their hand stays linked, thumb pressed gently into her wrist.

Heaving the deepest sigh of her life, Clarke picks up her bowling bag and opens the door as quick as she can. The quicker, the less painful. Or it’s supposed to be, because as she walks through her front door and chances a glance outside her window, his car is still idling in the street below.

She pushes her curtains to the side and waves. His lights flash before he pulls away; she presses her hand against the window. The glass is cool and her hand leaves an imprint when she pulls her hand away at last.

Clarke brushes her teeth first and stares at herself in the mirror. It feels like a repeat of his morning as she methodically moves her brush, baring her teeth to check if she got everywhere. Her hair is messy and her cheeks are almost too red; her foundation is mostly gone and her skin is a little too warm to the touch.

But there is a smile on her face that is apparent even when she tries to set her face in strict lines. It’s an inherent smile, not like the one with the crinkled eyes and straight teeth of the photos; it’s the slight curve at the corner of her lips she can’t banish, it’s the softness in the lines of her face that all belie of her happiness.

She hasn’t looked this happy since she was with Finn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO I'll try and get a chapter out a week, but my finals are coming up soon and then I'll be freaking out about returning to the US, so we'll see!! I wanted to add more to this chapter, to have more stuff happen, but oh well. the next chapter will have more stuff moving forward... hopefully. we'll see ahahaha.
> 
> I'm super awesome so you should come and fine me on [tumblr](http://rosycheeked.tumblr.com/)! or, you know, not. it's okay.


	8. Chapter 8

“No,” Clarke hisses, aghast. “I am not wearing that Octavia— besides, when would I wear it?” Before Octavia can make a smart remark, Clarke swipes the lacy teddy from her hands. “It’s completely see through,” she mumbles, holding it up for another scandalized look.

Octavia sighs and pushes through more of Octavia’s favorite lingerie stores racks. “Oh, god, come _on_ Clarke. You’re no fun at all.”

Ignoring her, Clarke flips over the tag and gasps at the price. “This is eighty bucks. I could pay my water bill with this.”

Octavia rolls her eyes and pulls out another piece of lingerie and holds it out in front of her with a critical eye. “Try this one too.”

“I would never wear these,” Clarke tries again, taking it obediently.

“You’re dating my brother, aren’t you? He likes this stuff.”

Clarke wishes she doesn’t blush, but she does. She can feel the warmth in her cheeks. “H-how do you even know what he likes?”

“He’s not exactly quiet about what he likes,” Octavia says, pulling grabbing a bra that is clearly not for Clarke and tosses a devil’s grin her way. “You should hear what he says about you.”

“I’m a little disturbed,” Clarke says with a raised eyebrow. “Because that doesn’t explain anything.”

“Just try them on,” Octavia says with a cute smile and a push towards the changing rooms. “And let me see!”

Hanging the items that have been pushed towards her over the past thirty minutes, Clarke pauses before entering the stall. “You’re not going to tell Bellamy about this, are you?”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Jesus, girl, paranoid much? Why would I tell him about going lingerie shopping? He’s still my brother.”

She gestures confusion with a hand. “I don’t know, I just…”

“Don’t worry about it, blondie, he won’t hear about it from me.”

This is not how she had originally planned this Wednesday to go, but it’s shaping up to be a pretty good day. Monday morning, on the bus to the cafe, she had called Octavia and dealt with some squealing and shock that she actually knows how to use a phone. It had been a tactic though, Clarke is sure, because she had been so shocked that she had nearly immediately agreed when Octavia had enthusiastically suggested they have a girl’s day out on Wednesday.

“Raven will come too! Though she has an afternoon class, so she’ll be around for dinner and has already volunteered her place for the evening.”

“Uh, are you—”

“Am I sure it’s a good idea? Yes. I am. It’ll be good, for both of you.”

“Fine, I’ll tell Wells we’re closing for the day.”

The older man standing next to her had side-eyed her the entire conversation and Clarke didn’t even give an apologetic look— it was his choice to listen to the whole thing. He could have moved; there was plenty of space open on the bus.

They had started sometime around eleven with Octavia ringing her apartment doorbell insistently. They had walked around downtown for a time, stopping by a burger place for some food, before continuing. Clarke thought they were wandering aimlessly through town, but apparently Octavia had been guiding them towards this place the entire time. It’s not that Clarke doesn’t _like_ lingerie; she no longer has the money for it and she hates tempting herself like this.

“Are you ready?” Octavia calls and when Clarke pushes aside the curtain, she’s pushing her breasts up and squinting at herself in the mirror. When Octavia notices the open curtain, she turns with a smile and swish of hair; then she whistles with an eyebrow waggle.

“Don’t you look good.”

She tugs at the hem of the babydoll’s silken fabric, the first item that had been shove into her hands, and wriggles a little. “It’s actually, somewhat covering my ass— is it supposed to do that?”

“God, Clarke, when’s the last time you’ve gone lingerie shopping?”

“Honestly?” She says, grabbing Octavia’s hand and giving her a swirl; she finishes with an approving nod. “Black lace suits you. And never. I never felt the need to dress up for my boyfriends— undergrad, sure, a little, but I was in this hick little town, the nearest Victoria’s at least an hour away, and never got the time to head out.”

Octavia gives her a pitying look; Clarke just rolls her eyes. “After that, I had better uses for my money.”

“Like what?”

“Nice dinners. Textbooks. Stuff like that,” Clarke says with a shrug, turning around in front of the mirror and sucking her tummy in. “And now? Now I don’t have the money for stuff like this.”

“You are—” Octavia says, then cuts off abruptly. “You’re gonna be good for each other.”

“Hmm?” Clarke asks, turning back towards her friend. Octavia’s looking at her seriously; it’s a rapid mood change and she feels bewildered. “What?”

“You and Bellamy. You’re gonna be good for each other.”

Clarke tries to brush it off with a light laughter, but she feels like they’ve already done each other good. It’s been a couple weeks and she’s seen Bellamy at least every other day if not every day. Somedays it’s been a quick stop for a brownie and a coffee with nothing more than a kiss to her cheek; other days he’s toting his computer, bags under his eyes but has a smile ready for her.

She’s got it bad for that smile; she has it really, _really_ bad. She cracks terrible jokes just to see it and sometimes does stupid things on the certainty he’ll smile before ruffling her hair. They had dinner Friday night; he opened doors for her and pulled out her chair. Unnecessary things, which she told him; he rejoined with a comment about how Octavia will whip his ass if he doesn’t. Apparently she demands full recounts of their every meeting.

“He’s definitely been good for me,” she says a moment later, stepping back into her changing room. “I don’t know if I’m any good for him, though.”

Octavia laughs as she goes back into her own stall. There’s the swish of the curtain closing and then her reply, “He smiles now.”

Clarke doesn’t get this— now? He smiles _now_? He smiled the first time she met him, that confident smirk and eyebrow at the Princess scrawled on her name tag. He smiles lots.

 

 

Octavia buys the babydoll for her and doesn’t take no for an answer. Clarke admits to herself that she really did like it, the dark blue appealing to her aesthetic senses as well as matching her eyes. It’s not nearly as risqué as some of the other things Octavia had her parade around in, though today has probably been one of the best days Clarke has had in a while. Octavia is a skilled conversationalist and today has been a reminder of that fact picked up at the previous dinner; she talked about common interests, how she never really enjoyed school and is currently putting herself through beauty school, cute, embarrassing stories about Bellamy. She draws similar stories out of Clarke, and it is in the bus that she realizes just how smooth Octavia is. It’s a surprise, however, that she hasn’t brought the doomed romance between her and Finn up even once.

“Bellamy needed the car today,” Octavia says with a huff and an eye roll, sitting in the aisle seat and legs crossed in the narrow space afforded. Clarke finds out Octavia’s skin is smooth to the touch and warm when she attempts crossing her legs herself, but it’s a failed endeavor. She’s the same height as Octavia, but the other young woman is more willowy than she is, as well as having an effortless grace and awareness of her body that Clarke is jealous of.

“He has his own life,” Clarke says with a smile. “Let him live it.”

“Ugh, don’t want to,” Octavia replies, digging her returned phone out of her purse. “I’m texting Raven we’re on our way.”

Clarke nods absently, staring out the window towards Baltimore’s Symphony Hall as they pass it; once upon a time, her parents had a subscription and went as often as their busy schedules allowed. Baltimore’s Symphony Orchestra was good, they used to tell her, but they had a special preference for the New York Philharmonic. Sometimes they went to the opera, but that was more likely when they had been given tickets by someone. Her dad used to love all of Mozart’s operas, and sometimes during high school he would start belting out Don Giovanni with the wrong words, about how she should do her homework, Wells calling last night, not to do drugs— stupid stuff at the time, the kind of stuff that had Clarke dragging a hand down her face in embarrassment because she was _so sure_ everyone around them could hear him through the car. Now, though, Clarke misses it; the other day she was listening to the classical station at home while reading a business textbook and spooning ice cream into her mouth, and a recording had started and she remembered one drive, her dad telling her that he and mom were going to try making lobster that night and to come home early. She cried that night, and it is Octavia prodding her that keeps her from a repeat performance.

She’s frowning in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Clarke murmurs, brushing it off with a shrug. “What were you saying?”

“I was wondering if you’d rather watch Some Like it Hot or Tootsie tonight. Raven’s been begging to see Some Like it Hot, but I’m a sucker for anything with Dustin Hoffman.”

Clarke frowns. “Those are both cross-dressing movies.”

Octavia shrugs slightly. “Yeah. They are.”

“And old.”

“So?”

“Why not Rocky Horror Picture Show? It’s old _and_ it has cross-dressing. You can’t go wrong with Rocky Horror.”

Octavia groans and starts typing something on her phone. “We’ll never agree on just one.”

“Or, another cross-dressing classic, Mrs Doubtfire?”

“How many do you even know?” Octavia complains.

Clarke smirks. “My mom’s a movie aficionado.”

“That’s really weird.”

Clarke just smiles; the first few weeks after her dad’s death, the two of them often camped in front of the tv and watched endless amounts of movies. When Clarke moved back to her apartment, it hadn’t quite stopped, but it did when her mom first broached selling the cafe whilst watching Bringing Down the House. To the soundtrack of Steve Martin and Queen Latifah talking, the two of them had their first fight in years and Clarke yelling that she was taking over the cafe.

“How about Mad Men?” Clarke offers a beat later, glancing out the bus window. There are clouds moving in from the east; she wonders if it’ll rain later. The forecast hadn’t said anything, but they look like rainclouds.

Octavia tilts her head slightly, finger to her chin, and her nose soon wrinkles. “I like Jon Hamm, but, like, it’s such a backwards show, you know? I get it’s in the sixties, but it still gets to me.”

“What’s the plan for dinner?”

“Raven’s gonna order some Chinese. There’s a good place near where she lives.”

Clarke bites her lip— she knows the place Octavia talking about. Finn used to order from the same place, and they would walk, arms hooked together, to pick it up since it was close enough.

Octavia looks at her for a moment before sighing. “Okay, I’ve been mum this whole time. I think it’s about time you tell me about Finn.”

“There’s nothing more to what you probably already know,” Clarke mumbles, propping her chin on her hand, elbow on the window ledge.

“Which is hardly anything,” Octavia argues. “Raven’s been tight-lipped as well, and I don’t really want to ask Finn. I get that he can be a great guy, he helped me out once when my car broke down, but, like, he’s hurt both of you. That’s not okay.”

“Look, Octavia,” Clarke says, turning so she’s facing the young woman, heel of her palm now digging the inside of her cheek into her molars. “I’m fine. It’s over and done. I don’t see why you want to drag it up so bad.”

“That, Clarke,” Octavia says softly, fingers curling into tight fists before loosening. “Is why I want you to talk about it. You probably didn’t get a chance to deal with it before your dad died, so I don’t think you’re really as okay about it as you think. Grief for your dad just pushed it away.”

Clarke stares at Octavia hard before blinking, lifting her head up and glancing away; once again, she has to stop tears. “I loved him,” she says quietly, “and he broke my heart. He broke up with me and one of the biggest surprises of my life was seeing him with Raven three weeks later.

Tentatively, Octavia branches the distance between them to curve an arm around Clarke’s shoulders and a moment later she feels the weight of Octavia’s head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Clarke leans into the warmth of Octavia for a moment before pulling away. “I’m fine, though, really. I have,” and now she blushes and hardly believes she’s going to say something so sappy, “Bellamy.”

The weight off her shoulder disappears and Octavia laughs; Clarke notes that she laughs like Bellamy, head thrown back before falling forward again, peeking up through displaced hair. “You’re something else, Clarke.”

Clarke shrugs modestly with a small smile. “Not really, but thanks. I guess.”

“It’s a compliment, I promise.”

 

 

The walk to Finn and Raven’s apartment is different with Octavia by her side. It’s June now, and the spring flowers disappeared with May, the summer flowers just starting to bud; the grass is green, the trees provide dappled shade on the walk there, and the sun is edging closer to the horizon and gives everything a lovely early evening hue. Clarke had demanded to be the one to carry the shopping bags and it knocks into the side of her knee every now and then.

“How about Star Wars?” Clarke suggests in a last, desperate attempt. Most of her offerings have been shot down, like the original, Japanese Godzilla, Kill Bill, Chicago and, one of her favorites, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. “The original three, with Harrison Ford.”

Octavia seems most enthusiastic about this suggestion, though she had paused at Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Most likely, Clarke theorizes, because of Robert Downey Jr, though she personally loves Val Kilmer. Back when she had first started undergrad, she had loved Top Gun and tried to convince nearly all of her friends to watch it. Not many of them wanted to.

“We could do Star Wars, though Raven might get annoying while critiquing the quack engineering of Hollywood.”

“Sounds good,” Clarke replies, honestly surprised. Bellamy’s a fan, she assumes from the t-shirt, so maybe they had watched it together or something.

“This does mean,” Octavia says with a sly look towards Clarke, “that we’ll be needing repeat girls night to finish all the movies.”

At first Clarke wants to argue and say that she doesn’t have the time, but then she realizes that she hasn’t stressed or really, truly worried all day about the cafe. She’s had thoughts now and then about it, wondering how some of their regulars are, if Wells is off doing interviews or whatever. It’s weird, but frankly refreshing to not stress every moment of the day over it.

“Yeah,” she says instead. “Sounds good.”

Octavia beams at her and they arrive at the apartment. In moments they’re knocking on the door and Raven opens it with a cheerful smile, phone in hand. “I’ll call for the food— any requests?”

Without thinking much about it, Clarke says, “Shrimp fried rice.”

Octavia gives a little shake of her head. “No shrimp, please. Why not just some pork fried rice?”

“Have something against seafood?” Clarke asks with a raised eyebrow. “How do you live in Baltimore?”

“I just don’t go to seafood restaurants,” she replies a little testily, entering the apartment as Raven holds the door wide open. “It’s not as hard as you might think.”

“What about crab cakes? You must like crab cakes,” Clarke pushes, entirely credulous as she follows Octavia in, putting the shopping bag by the door. Raven puts a hand on her shoulder and shakes her head slightly.

“She got sick when she was younger from over-eating seafood and ever since she won’t eat it. I was able to pry the story from her.”

Clarke nods, awkward with only Raven, as Octavia had gone further into the apartment. “We can get pork fried rice, I don’t mind. What’re you going to get?”

“Probably some kung pao chicken or something, I’m in the mood for spicy.”

“Mm, that sounds good.”

“You two,” Octavia says, leaning against the frame to the living room with her arms crossed,  “sound like an old married couple.”

Raven and Clarke share a look and break out in wide smiles. “That makes you our belligerent, rebel teenager, you know.”

Octavia rolls her eyes and waves a DVD case in front of her. “Found the movie. Now we need to get ourselves a few beers and ogle Harrison Ford while we wait for the food.”

“Aye, aye, capitan,” Clarke says, going to the fridge. There are a few National Bohemians, a beer brewed in Baltimore, and Clarke knows it to be Finn’s favorite. She doesn’t mind it too much herself, and helps herself to one and passes a Sam Adams Summer Ale, as it’s that time of year, to Raven and takes another for Octavia; Raven takes it with a puzzled look, glancing at the bottle in her hand and then at the one in Clarke’s.

“Did you—” Clarke starts, glancing back at the Natty Boh in her hand before a trickle of something cold runs down her spine. Clarke knows she knows, but does she know Clarke knows she knows? It’s awfully convoluted, and Clarke truly doesn’t want to unravel that particular string ever. “D’you want a Natty Boh? I thought that you’d prefer something more, uh, summery.”

“No, it’s fine, people usually assume I want something with more Baltimorean pride.”

Clarke shrugs, as casually as she can. “Octavia wants a Sam Adams though, right?”

“Yeah,” Raven says, unscrewing her bottle and moving to the living room, where Clarke can hear Octavia mumbling something, though faintly. In the doorway, she stops and it’s a picturesque scene with her partially turned, the beer just visible, the dimmer lights in the living room making her seem otherworldly. “I’m looking forward to tonight, with just the three of us,” she says seriously.

Unscrewing her own bottle, the ridges of the cap digging harshly into her palm, she tries to shrug again. “Men are dicks, who needs them.”

Raven smiles softly at first, and then widely, her white, even teeth flashing. “Right? Pigs, the lot of them.” Clarke returns the smile, the cap loose in her hand, and it feels like a true bonding moment, almost a way for Raven to tell her the past doesn’t matter, and then Raven turns around while telling Octavia not to break her DVD player and asking what, exactly, she wanted to eat.

 

 

The plates in front of them are dirty, with pieces of vegetables, meat and rice from all the different cartons in front of them, their beer bottles scattered across the table. Clarke’s had at least four and thinks she should replace them, because that’s the nice thing to do, though Raven’s on her seventh. Octavia’s only had two, both much earlier in the evening, passing on Raven’s pushing with insistence that alcohol makes her bloat and how she has to drive home.

The second of the original trilogy is ending and Clarke is ready for the third one, her favorite to be honest, with the full resolution, Han Solo and Leia getting together, Luke Skywalker receiving final answers and Darth Vader being the chosen one from the first episode, the first movie done in their lifetime, dubbed so by Qui Gon Jinn. Next to her, however, Raven is listing all the impossibilities of lightsabers and Octavia is egging her on between nodding off. It’s also late, her phone informing her it’s almost 11.

“I’m gonna head out,” Clarke says, standing up with a full body stretch once the credits start rolling with characteristically Star Wars dramatic music.

“Party pooper,” Raven immediately says, stopping mid-rant. “We’re just getting started.”

“I’ve got work tomorrow,” she insists, picking up her bottles and bringing them to the kitchen to recycle them. The bottles clink as she drops them and she returns for the others. The two of them are lazing on the couch and Raven winks at her as Clarke stacks the plates and cartons.

“Thanks, babe,” she says and Clarke huffs, shakes her head, but ultimately says nothing as she puts the dishes on the sink and tosses the empty cartons, boxing the non-empty ones for the fridge. When she returns, Octavia’s nearly asleep on Raven’s shoulder. Raven’s staring blankly at the TV and blinks when Clarke comes back.

Sighing, Raven pushes Octavia off with some gentleness and helps her with the beer bottles. “Jokes aside, thank you, really.”

“It’s no problem,” Clarke assures her, opening the bin for Raven before dumping the bottles she was holding.

“You clean enough at work, I should have done it myself,” Raven mutters, rolling her shoulders before heading to the sink. “Call Bellamy or something, or I can even call Finn if necessary.

“It’s fine, I can take the bus,” Clarke says, leaning against the counter. “I’ve taken it this late before.”

Raven turns and shoots her displeased frown. “Doesn’t make it okay. Baltimore can be safe at times, but it’s late and I’m sure we’d all be happier if you took us up on a ride.”

“Sure, maybe,” Clarke murmurs, watching Raven open the dishwasher and slot their dirty items in nice and neat. The other woman dries her hand on a towel and, in line with her personality, is direct with Clarke, nearly uncomfortably so.

“Should I break up with Finn?”

“What?” Clarke asks, more than shocked. “Why?”

“Look, Clarke, I know you two were seeing each other, and I am a little unhappy with you, but I’m not dumb. You knew nothing, right? My existence was a surprise to you.”

“I— I’m not sure you should be asking me.”

“Better you than Finn. Or Octavia, she’s already told me to break up with him.”

“What about— what about the apartment?” Clarke tries, gesturing around them. Raven shakes her head slightly, the tip of her ponytail swinging from one side of her neck to the other.

“Material possessions, Clarke. What I’m asking if you think he’s worth it.”

The pressure is huge; this is another persons life. She had become used to the abstract idea at med school, of changing another’s life, how you can save someone, but this is different. This is a friend, or Clarke hopes they’re friends, staring directly at her with an intensity she can’t quite handle.

“No,” she finally answers. “I thought we were it, Raven, I really did. I don’t know— I loved him.”

Raven sighs, crossing her arms and tilting her head back. “Go call Bellamy and head home. Please, Clarke,” she adds when Clarke doesn’t move.

She moves quickly, heading to the living room and giving Octavia a little shake. “I’m heading home,” she says, smiling small at her. “See you later.”

“Call me,” Octavia mumbles before falling asleep just as quickly as she had woken up.

Clarke doesn’t make promises as she leaves; Raven has disappeared somewhere, and Clarke doesn’t really want to know the details about it.

 

 

She calls Bellamy while walking to the bus stop. It goes to voicemail and Clarke sighs, pocketing her phone. It would’ve been nice to hear his voice; she hasn’t seen him all day and they haven’t had a real talk in a while. A block from the bus stop, her phone rings from her pocket and it’s Bellamy.

“Hello,” she says, a little flurry in her heart, “Bellamy?”

“You called?” He asks, sounding deeply amused at something.

“I did.” She doesn’t elaborate, and he waits. He’s not the most patient man, however, and is soon asking her about it.

“Something up?”

“Well, kind of? I was at Raven’s with Octavia and I just— I wanted to talk to you.”

“Was?” Bellamy asks, quick as ever, tone sharp. “Are you taking the bus home?”

“I’ve done it loads of times before,” Clarke argues. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“I’ll come pick you up, just stay where you are.”

“You don’t even know where I am,” she tries to tell him, but he’s already hung up. She stares at her phone and then glances around the darkness. It’s a nice area, but everything seems more sinister with the cover of night. She shivers even though it’s a warm day.

Twenty minutes later, she hears a car turning off the nearby main road and then she sees headlights. The car, Bellamy’s car, pulls up in front of her; Bellamy rolls down the window as she approaches, but seems to decide it’s not good enough because he opens the door and clambers out, long limbs and all.

“How are you,” he says softly, his face falling into tender lines. “Had a good day?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs in reply, arms curving around his waist with hardly a thought, her forehead resting against his sternum. “It was.”

His hands rub her back. “Let’s get you home,” he says after they’ve stood there for too long, pulling away and pushing her to the passenger seat door. “You can tell me about it in the car.”

She doesn’t really talk about it, just curls up in the seat as much as she can, facing Bellamy. Clarke mostly watches lights flicker across his face and smiles at him when they’re at red lights and he glances her way.

“Something’s up,” he eventually says. “You’re too quiet.”

“Don’t be mad,” she says, uncurling and peeking at the street sign. They’re maybe ten from her apartment. “But remember how I said I was the other woman before?” She doesn’t look to see his nod. “It was Finn. I was dating Finn.”

There’s silence; the Rolling Stones come on the radio, announced by the late night DJ. “Finn,” Bellamy repeats. “Raven’s boyfriend Finn.”

“Yep,” Clarke says with a resigned tone. “One and the same.”

“And that’s what’s eating you?” he asks. Clarke finally looks over to see his face; one hand is tightly curled around the steering wheel, the other hand a tight fist, but his face reads more confusion than anything.

“Partly,” she murmurs quietly. “It’s a lot of guilt, really. Raven’s an amazing person and I— I ruined her relationship. Did you know they’ve been together for six years? She was abroad in Europe, studying and stuff, when I got together with Finn. I had no clue,” she finishes in a nearly silent voice.

“You shouldn’t be guilty over this,” Bellamy says, a hand reaching to squeeze her shoulder. He’s not angry at her, she realizes, but at something else. “This isn’t for you to bear.”

“I loved him, Bellamy,” she says desperately, wanting _someone_ to blame her. Raven doesn’t blame her, Octavia doesn’t blame her and Bellamy doesn’t blame her. She only blames herself, but she needs someone to validate this deep, wrenching guilt at ruining something that had probably been beautiful. “I loved him and I probably would have agreed to continuing our relationship if he had been upfront.”

At this, Bellamy abruptly turns onto one of the residential streets they were passing and into the parking lane. His gaze, when it turns to her, is furious and _yes_ , this is what she wanted, she wants someone to be angry at her, to say it is her fault, tell her that everything is broken and it’s her own doing.

“You are not the Clarke Griffin I know,” he growls, jerkily putting the car into park. “The Clarke I know doesn’t compromise on her morals like that. You wouldn’t have continued your relationship because you know it’s wrong. Don’t bullshit me Clarke. I’m not going to give you the berating you think you deserve.”

Tears come to her eyes. “Raven’s going to break up with him, Bellamy,” she gets through sniffles, “and it’s my fault.”

His face gentles and he puts an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close so her head rests on his shoulder. “It’s her choice in the end,” Bellamy says in a hushed voice. The car rumbles in the background. “It’s not your fault.”

“It should be.”

“But it’s not.”

The sniffles soon abate, as Clarke hates crying in front of others more than anything, and Bellamy resumes driving after one tight hug. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promises her when they pull up in front of her apartment.

“I know,” she says, feeling lighter somehow, as though she’s starting to believe this isn’t her burden to bear any longer, as though she’s let go of Finn altogether. “I’m holding you to it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I AM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT but I'm back in the states now! I was jetlagged, then had a family vacation during with my brother broke my computer, but it's fixed, and I'm back now!! I will be moving back to my home school in the states fairly soon and will be wrapped up in hanging with friend I haven't seen in a year and a half, but I should be better able to produce chapters.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter and it was somewhat worth the wait!! come talk to me on [tumblr](http://rosycheeked.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> also ps i can't drink beer (gluten intolerant and therefore allergic) so idk about the beer i googled it


	9. Chapter 9

“Hello?”

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, opening the dishwasher to slide her bowl in. “Mom, I’m up at six every day.”

“You weren’t always an early-riser.”

She laughs lightly, closing the dishwasher, readjusts her phone. “What’s up?”

“You know the annual hospital gala happens mid-June, right?”

“Mom,” Clarke asks, her horror growing as she pads back to her bedroom. “I dropped out, I’m not— I’m not going to the summer gala.”

“You’re still my daughter,” her mom reminds her. “Drop-out or not, you’re my daughter, and I want you to be there.”

“I really don’t want to go— I don’t have a dress or anything.”

“Put it on my card,” her mom insists. “I haven’t spent time with you in months.”

It’s true; Clarke is able to wriggle out of most attempts her mom makes to fix their relationship. Wells words come to mind though— _you’re the only family she has left_. Abby Griffin is the only family Clarke has left as well and although her memories of her lately aren’t that great, the tense phone calls, the argument over the cafe, a month of zero communication after she dropped out, but things weren’t always like that.

Her dad might have been the easy-going one of the two, but that doesn’t mean her mom wasn’t present as well. At seven, her dad was out of town for a week and her mom took that week off to drive to a beach down south, sunglasses propped on her head, allowing her to sit in the front if she promised to be good. Clarke might look more like her dad, blue eyes, light hair, pale skin, but she has received most of her morals, her arrow of good and right from her mom. Her dad had one too, yeah, but it was her mom who cried when an operation went wrong, who taught Clarke about the value of human life.

“I’ll go to Versace,” Clarke says, surprising a laugh out of her mom. She pulls some clothes from her drawers, cargo pants and a shirt she got when she donated blood four years ago.

“If you want,” she replies easily; tears come to Clarke’s eyes. Are they really so far gone that her mom will pay for a _Versace_ dress to try and fix this?

“I’m kidding, mom, god, I’ll go to Macy’s or something.”

“Thank god,” her mom breathes, “no one can really afford a Versace gown anyways.”

“I’m sure if you were Angelina Jolie you could, but yeah.” A thought occurs as she leaves her clothes alone to sit, cross-legged, on her bed, and hesitantly adds, “Can I ask my boyfriend to come?”

There’s silence and then, “Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, remember, uh, the guy in the kitchen? We’re kind of… dating now.”

“Oh, god, this is exciting,” her mom exclaims, “why don’t you tell me these things! Have him come over for dinner sometime, I’ll make that fish you like, the tilapia recipe, I’ll get some nice wine as well—”

“Mom,” Clarke cuts through with a small laugh, “don’t, please, you’ll scare him away. He might not want to go to the gala, by the way, but I want to make sure he can come if he ends up wanting to.”

“Of course he can,” her mom scolds, “I’ll give a talking to anyone who says otherwise. You’ve never brought a date before, I won’t let bureaucracy stop you now.”

“I brought that guy in undergrad, remember?”

Her mom heaves a self-suffering sigh. “He ditched you at the entrance, dear, it doesn’t count.”

“Oh. I forgot about that. What was his name anyway?”

“Like I remember.” Her mom gives a full laugh; Clarke remembers not just that week at the beach, getting burned and then tan, her mom splashing her in the ocean, but in high school when Clarke learned about wry humor, the biting one-liner, and her mom laughing at the dinner table, absolutely _losing it_. Her dad was more of the goofy humor, the slapstick, full-body jokes, and he laughed as well, but her mom has sharp jokes, the cutting humor which Clarke learned later made interns cry.

 She checks her watch; it’s almost time to leave. “I’ll ask him.”

“Thanks,” her mom says warmly. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

 

 

Wells arrives ten minutes later with deep eye bags and seemingly haggard. He dumps his wallet and keys in the staff locker before grabbing an apron, movements sharp.

“You okay?” Clarke asks, holding a bowl against her torso while she stirs the batter. “Something happen?”

Wells stares at her then shakes his head. “No. We’re good.”

She’s alarmed. “Wait, so this is a problem with me? Have I done something?”

He shrugs, grabbing a mixing bowl and a mix. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

Clarke puts her bowl down, rubbing her hands down on her apron. “Wells, don’t lie to me. What happened?”

Wells places his hands on the counter, flat at first, but they curl into fists after a moment. “How much longer are you going to keep this up?”

“What?”

“I— I can’t do this forever, Clarke. I don’t want to do this with my life.”

Clarke takes a deep breath. “You’ve been talking with your dad.”

“Clarke,” Wells yells. “You can’t say that like he’s the enemy!”

She takes a step back, flinching, hips hitting the edge of the counter. “But Wells—”

“But nothing,” Wells bites back. “I thought that this would be some sort of phase of yours, that you’d snap out of, but we’re going on six months. You’ve sold your car, you worry over this damn place all the time, and you’re incredibly unhappy.”

“This— this was never a phase,” Clarke retorts, but her voice is soft. “You said it was okay, that you could—”

“I have to find a real job,” Wells says flatly. “This has been great, but I can’t keep this up.”

Clarke takes a deep breath, then another. “Okay,” she says. “This is your two weeks notice then?”

His hands flatten again. “Yeah. It is.”

“Got it.” Her hands shake as she starts mixing again. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do without Wells. She had a vague idea that his dad didn’t approve of this, but no one has approved of Clarke since her dad’s death, so it hadn’t registered.

Logically, Clarke knows this isn’t a betrayal, but it still feels like one. After five minutes of mindless stirring, she takes a break to cry in the bathroom. She thought she could rely on Wells, but if he leaves, he takes the last bit of the life she knew with him. Her mom is nearly a stranger and she has left all of her med school friends a long time ago. She has known Wells since they were children, with her mom and his dad working together. They got together at the hospital daycare and played goblins and ogres together— they were inseparable for a long time.

When she’s done, Clarke stares at the mirror and splashes her face thoroughly with cold water. Her eyes are still red, but there’s nothing she can do about that.

 

 

The day is long and at the end of it, Wells leaves with a quiet goodbye. Clarke sits in the back, elbows on the counter, hands in her hair. She has been thinking all day, but there is no solution. There’s nothing for her to do. Wells has been accepting minimum payment without complaint; he even helped with paying for shipments when they hadn’t made enough that week. She— she can’t do this without him. He is the quiet presence at her shoulder that bolsters her confidence and her courage. Without him, the cafe would have folded within a few weeks.

In her pocket her phone buzzes. It’s Bellamy, she knows. She should ask him about the gala now, because better early than later, but—

“Hey,” she murmurs, hunching further over the counter until her forehead is resting on the arm splayed across. “I hope someone had a good day.”

“Well, not really,” he replies. “But what happened to you?”

“Wells quit,” she mumbles. “He quit. What am I going to do? I can’t— I can’t ask Jasper or Monty to work her practically full time for min wage, like, I get by barely, they’re students and—”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupts her. “I’m swinging by now, lets get something to eat.”

“Okay,” she murmurs and hangs up. He comes through the back door minutes later. She hasn’t moved.

“Wells quit, huh,” he says, sitting on the counter next to her. She shifts her head so she can look up at him.

“Yeah. He thinks the cafe was a phase of mine.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t think there’s much to say. “Let’s get dinner,” he finally says, “and get you off your sorry ass.”

“Bell—” she hisses, sitting up to glare at him. His eyebrow is raised as he stares cooly back at her.

“Am I wrong? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. That’s not the Clarke I know.”

“We all need time to wallow.” She stands, though, and he does as well.

“Mind eating at my place?”

“Sure.”

 

 

Clarke wonders when the best time to ask Bellamy about the gala is, but it certainly isn’t tonight. He parks neatly a block from her apartment, because all the spots in front were taken, and the walk to her front door is quiet. She kind of wants to bring it up, but Clarke knows herself better than that— it would be running away. Bellamy would take the bait, but she needs to face this problem and she needs to figure out a plan of action soon.

“So,” Bellamy says, pulling his shoes off. Clarke doesn’t bother, just dumps her bag down on the way to her kitchen. “Wells quit.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, opening her fridge. There are some pizza leftovers from the night before, as well as a stir-fry and some pasta. “I have pizza, stir-fry and pasta. What would you like?” There’s no response and she closes the fridge. “Bellamy?”

“Your place is a mess,” she hears from her living room and turns to see him staring at the messy couch, pillows and books in distaste. “I thought you’d keep your place would be more like the cafe.”

“Business and personal life are separate,” she grumbles, and returns to the fridge to pull the pizza out. It was take-out and won’t last as long. “We’re having pizza because you complained.”

“I’m fine with anything,” he says, entering the kitchen and taking a seat at the small kitchen table. “What’re these books?”

“Um,” Clarke says while putting the pizza onto a plate for the microwave. “Which books?”

“The economics books,” he replies. When Clarke turns to look with horror, he’s flipping through one of her textbooks.

“You’re not allowed to look at those.”

“You’ve written all over these,” he mutters and looks up at her with something like happy surprise. “I never expected this, to be honest.”

The plate of pizza is abandoned on the counter and Clarke marches over to shut the book Bellamy’s perusing and roughly stack the others and drop them in the living room. “You never expected it why?”

He shrugs. “I kind of understand where Wells is coming from.”

“You’re not getting any pizza,” she mumbles as she puts the pizza in the microwave and enters in a time. “None. Zilch pizza for Bellamy tonight.”

“Oh, come on Clarke, really? You don’t see it?”

“He knows me, Bellamy,” she insists, leaning against the counter as she waits for the pizza. “He knows that I wouldn’t up and quit med school with a year left. He knows that if I was going to do this, I’d do it all the way through.”

“Clarke, your dad had just died. I don’t know Wells at all, but I’d bet five bucks he thought this was some grieving process of yours. You’re the extreme type.”

“No I’m not,” she snaps. “I’m not an extreme type.”

He gives her a look. “You’re much more honest when drunk.”

She mimics him mockingly then sighs. “Sorry, Bellamy, it’s been a long day. Without Wells, I’m going to have to close shop.”

He stands and approaches her, arms curling around her waist. She leans forward, into him, forehead resting just below his shoulder. “You’ll figure something out,” he whispers. She can feel the rumble with their bodies pressed together like this.

The microwave buzzes. “It’s pepperoni, hope you don’t mind,” she says while disengaging. His arms come free from her waist.

“I love pepperoni,” he replies.

“Good.”

 

 

When they are done eating, Clarke doesn’t want Bellamy to leave. It’s not just been a trying day, but a nightmarish five months. She could to back further than that, to the interim months between the breakup and the car accident. For a while, it took all of Clarke’s positivity to get out of bed in the morning. Some days it felt like there was nothing to get up for, but recently things have been different.

Clarke has started looking forward to the day. Every day is exhausting and at the end she always collapses on her bed, half-dressed in pajamas and half still dressed from the day, but they’ve been good days. She can feel a definite shift, a turning of wheels as she starts moving forward again.

Ah, that’s what it is, Clarke thinks as she curls against Bellamy on her couch. He’s flicking aimlessly through channels and stops on a Spanish soap opera.

“You speak Spanish?” she asks and feels him shrug underneath her cheek.

“Just conversational.”

She hums and twists so her legs dangle over the arm of the couch and absently listens to the prattle of Spanish in the background. She’s moving forward, and, whether or Bellamy knows it, he’s helping her with that. She isn’t necessarily defining herself by him, but Bellamy’s presence in her life is showing her new possibilities once again. The cafe had become the end all be all, but now?

It’s important, but she’s starting to think that she can’t do it forever. It’s not feasible. She’s only getting by in her apartment thanks to her mom, and how embarrassing is that? She claims to be on her own, that she can take care of herself, but look at her now. Running a cafe that is shedding money and dependent on a young man to feel like she can do anything.

He chuckles at something from the soap opera. When Clarke was in school, she took French, then dropped it and studied Latin. In undergrad, she continued her classical studies while studying science. She loved uncovering the rich worlds of ancient Rome and Greece, but the languages never came to practical fruition; it helped somewhat in medical terms and everyday vocabulary, but not much beyond that.

“When’d you study Spanish?”

“School,” Bellamy says, glancing down at her and moving to put an arm around her clavicle. Her hands go up to curl around his bicep and his hand squeezes her shoulder. “One of my best friends is Hispanic.”

“So you two speak in Spanish?”

“Yeah. I’ll introduce you to each other one day.”

“What’s his name?”

“Eric.”

He smells like summer, she thinks, sniffing at his arm. Summer used to conjure images of Finn, of their time at beaches, strolling through parks, but he’s starting to be erased.

“Have you heard anything from Octavia? About Raven?”

He shakes his head and turns the tv off. “Nothing. You should ask her yourself,” he scolds lightly and presses a kiss to the top of her head before standing. “I should get going. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“Don’t go,” she whines, falling backwards onto the couch and lifts her hands up towards him. “Stay here?”

He bends down to kiss her, properly, not like child, and her arms curve around his back. “I can’t,” he murmurs against her lips. “I’ll see you later.”

He walks away and Clarke sits up to watch him walk away, hugging her knees to her chest. “I have something to ask you, later,” she tells him as he goes to the hallway.

“Can’t ask me now?” Bellamy asks, hand on the frame.

“No,” she says, resting her cheek on her knees. He’s tall, Clarke realizes anew. He’s inches from brushing the top of the doorway and his limbs are long, with long fingers, a big heart. “I’ll ask you later.” He smiles softly and walks over to run fingers through her hair. She closes her eyes. “Not fair,” she mumbles. “If you’re leaving, just go.”

“Yes, yes,” he laughs softly. “I’m going.”

 

 

Later, when crawling into bed, Clarke texts Octavia and receives an answer immediately.

- _Finally! They broke up the day after our girls day. Did you have something to do with it?  
_

 _-_ She asked me if they should break up and I said yes.

- _Good for you sweetie. Mommy’s proud._

 _-_ You’re not my mom. Thank god. By the way, I need to go dress-shopping. Like formal dress-shopping. Help?

- _OH MY GOD YES I AM HELPING awwww little Clarke is growing up!!_

-As I said, you’re not my mom. Does next Thursday afternoon sound good?

_-Yeah, Thursday should be fine! Oooh, I’m excited! I’ll invite Raven as well._

_-_ If you want.

Clarke puts her phone away after that last text and ignores it when it buzzes with a new text. She was never good at picking out dresses for herself, so it’ll be nice to have Octavia with her to help choose one.

She had half expected Raven and Finn to have broken up and half wanted them to still be together. Guilt is still an anchor around her neck, because she did help cause it. It is partially her fault, no matter what Bellamy said. If she and Finn hadn’t been a thing, she doubts that their relationship would have become as troubled as it did. They could have been going down-hill long before her intrusion, but she was the needle that punctured the balloon. In the end, she was the demise in their relationship, and it was after her conversation with Raven that they broke up.

Then again, Clarke realizes, that means her involvement was good in the end. Almost. Kind of? She peeks at her bedside clock and winces when she discovers that it’s nearing one am. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. But Clarke resolves that she’ll try and talk with Wells a little more about what’s going on. Maybe they’ll close the shop after lunch and— go somewhere. Be a little spontaneous. Rekindle her friendship with her oldest, greatest friend.

Tomorrow she will be exhausted, but Clarke will make sure it’s a good day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's taken so long for a chapter update and that it's not so long. a lot of important plot stuff is starting so look forward to it!
> 
> I've been dealing with a lot of personal problems (a lot of reacclimatization that hasn't gone well). I'll try and post more regularly-- once I'm past registration, which is within the next week, I'll have less to worry about and, hopefully, more will to write anything at all.
> 
> if you wanna talk, hit me up at my [tumblr](http://rosycheeked.tumblr.com/). hope you guys had a wonderful october!


	10. Chapter 10

"So… why did the chicken cross the road twice?”

Clarke groans as she curls further into the back of the couch. “Your jokes aren’t making me feel any better,” she says through her blocked nose. “I’m pretty sure they’re making me feel worse.”

Jasper sighs and passes her the trash can for the— Clarke forgets what time. Her head is stuffed, her nose is stuffed, her throat hurts and life _sucks_. She tried to go to work this morning and Wells sent her home immediately with an order of bed rest for at least three days, until Friday or Saturday. He exaggerated by asking for three days and knowing how Clarke is, but it was out of concern. It’s evening now, and she only feels worse.

She tosses one of the used tissues in from over her shoulder. “Are you going to finish the joke?” she asks, tugging uselessly on one of the blankets tightly wrapped up to her neck.

“Do you want to hear it?”

She mumbles an unintelligible answer.

“The soup is done!” Monty says and she watches him cross to the living room, a steaming bowl held carefully around the rim.

“I hate chicken noodle soup,” Clarke enunciates as clearly as she can.

Monty rolls his eyes. “No one actually hates chicken noodle soup,” he replies, placing it on the table. There’s a small clink as he places a spoon next to it. “Now, sit up, and eat.” When she just glares at him from her cocoon, he sighs. “Fine. Don’t eat. It’s only been scientifically proven that chicken noodle soup makes you feel better when sick.”

“No it hasn’t,” she mumbles as she finally maneuvers to sit up. Her arms are comfortable underneath the blankets and she takes a few moments to figure out how to unearth them. Monty stares at her the whole while. “I’m a doctor, Monty, don’t you forget that. I know science.”

“Oh, really?” Jasper asks. “Since when?”

She frowns as she takes the spoon. Sometimes Clarke feels like a doctor, and sometimes she wants it all to disappear from memory and history. She wants to correct people when they make incorrect medical statements, but then when she tries providing credentials they always ask questions like Jasper’s. She can’t answer, because, after all, she isn’t really a doctor. Only a doctor’s daughter.

“Still more of a doctor than you.” She dips the spoon into the soup and blows on it before swallowing. It’s hot and a little too salty, but she doesn’t hate it like she said. Maybe it’s not scientifically proven, but as she continues eating, it does make her feel better. Her nose starts to clear from the warmth.

“You have your soup and we brought a box of your favorite tea, so make some, and get better soon.”

“Thanks,” she says, the hard k clunky with her throat. “Really, it means—”

“Next time,” Monty interrupts, “call your boyfriend. Please.”

“He’s working tonight,” she protests, fishing for a piece of chicken in the bowl. “He’s coming tomorrow.”

Jasper rolls his eyes and stands. “Because it’s a double crosser,” he says, walking to the hallway.

“What?” Clarke asks.

“The joke. Why did the chicken cross the road twice?”

She smiles. “That’s not half bad.”

“See you later,” Jasper says with a smile and Monty bops her on the head.

“Get better soon. No one likes a sick Clarke.”

“I think I’m twice as charming when sick,” she calls after him. She hears the two of them laugh as they open the door and leave. The door shuts and Clarke is alone.

They weren’t here long, only an hour or so, but it was enough to brighten the dreary day. Technically it’s a gorgeous May day outside, sun shining, birds chirping, but Clarke remembers the sun as blinding and the birds as aggravating when she tried to go to work. When she got home, she shut all the curtains and curled up on the closest surface afterwards, which had been the floor.

She doesn’t get sick often, but when she does, she’s _really_ sick.

 

 

Clarke lied about Bellamy coming over, because he doesn’t know she’s sick. They texted earlier today; he asked her why the cafe was closed, and she said she was taking a personal day. He didn’t inquire further about it, and the conversation turned towards safer subjects, like American Idol, which she loves and he’s on the fence about, and when they can have their next date. Bellamy wants to see the newest blockbuster, but Clarke’s not that interested. It could also be the cold and how no medicine seems to be working, making her more grumpy than usual, but the point was stated loud and clearly to him: she would not see any ‘stupid, action movies.’

She wakes up early Thursday morning, her bed suddenly uncomfortable and lumpy. She tosses and turns for a few hours before she drags herself from bed, blankets trailing on the floor behind her. Clarke postures for a moment as a queen before she passes a mirror and sees just how terrible she looks: oily hair, red nose, dark circles under her eyes.

For breakfast she picks at a bowl of Raisin Bran, because that’s all the cereal she currently has in the house, and dumps it down the sink. The milk leaves white lines and splatters on the steel surface with soggy cereal and raisins in clusters. Clarke momentarily thinks about running the faucet, cleaning it up, but that just seems like so much effort, and she’s been putting so much effort in everything else that she just— she just doesn’t have the _energy_ for something as simple as cleaning.

The bowl remains in the sink amidst it’s previous contents and she moves to the couch, curling up again and turning the TV on. There’s the news, some reality TV programs she’s never heard of, some cooking shows. After a point, she gets tired of flipping through channels and it’s left on cartoons.

They’re amusing and silly. Maybe being sick isn’t so bad, Clarke thinks, and then sneezes four times in a row, causing her head to flare painfully and snot to flow freely.

Jinx.

 

 

Octavia calls after Clarke has made a trip to the linen closet to pull free a roll of toilet paper with the blanket trailing on the floor, because she’s gone through her box of tissues.

“Where are you?” she asks and Clarke winces, because the volume is too fucking _loud_.

“At home,” she says, fumbling with her cell until she can turn the volume down. “Wait, is today Thursday?”

“Clarke,” Octavia asks slowly. “Are you sick?”

“Maybe,” Clarke mumbles.

“Bellamy didn’t— wait, does Bellamy even know?”

“...No?”

There’s a long-suffering sigh— which is actually pretty insulting; what, exactly, is Octavia suffering? Clarke’s the one with a pounding head and a faucet for a nose. “Okay, rain check on dress shopping, I’ll tell Raven. Meanwhile, you ask Bellamy to come over and take care of your cute, sick little butt.”

“No,” Clarke protests. “Don’t, I can’t—”

The phone call ends and Clarke moves the phone around to stare at the bright screen in disbelief. She hung up on her. Clarke can’t _believe_ her. This isn’t what friends— okay, actually they do stuff like this, if her memory serves right. Friends insist on doing what they believe is good for each other. It makes Clarke feel marginally better, though when Octavia’s text pops up on her screen, the warm feeling dissipates.

_— If you don’t tell him, I will._

She huffs and stares at her phone for a while, the TV background noise to her dilemma, and then her phone buzzes again.

— _Do you really want to see his pout when he finds out from me and not you?? His pouts are lethal, Clarke. Lethal._

Sighing, Clarke finally calls him. She’s weak to his pouts.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m sick,” she murmurs. “Come over?”

There’s some fumbling, a clink of metal, and then, “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up; she drops her phone and buries her head into the couch pillow but then turns it just enough to watch the TV screen. Whatever’s going on is incomprehensible and she can’t tell if this is Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon— there’s a difference, she knows, but she hasn’t found it yet.

The doorbell rings and she drags herself up off the couch, with blanket, and to the door.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, eyebrows drawing together. “You look like shit.”

“I know,” she mumbles, leaving the door to return to her couch. She hears Bellamy take his shoes off and then the creak in floorboards as he approaches. He gently runs a hand over her hair and then his hand lays against her forehead.

She sighs. His hand is large and easily covers the area.

“No fever,” he says, and runs another hand through her hair. His fingers catch on tangles and she winces when he pulls slightly. “Sorry,” he says and then she hears him go to the fridge.

She feels incredibly awkward. This is why she didn’t want to invite him over. It was hard enough having Jasper and Monty over and be taken care of by them; Bellamy hovering over her makes her uncomfortable. Finn never saw her sick. There’s something about being coddled by her boyfriend that rubs her wrong.

Clarke takes after her mom like this. Whenever Abby Griffin is sick, she raises hell upon anyone who dares to take care of her. Her dad was the only one able to get her to drink her tea, sip her soup, and tuck her into bed without metaphorically losing his head.

“Here’s some tea,” Bellamy says, setting a steaming mug down on the table after brushing away some used tissue paper and toilet paper. “Have you eaten yet? Taken medicine? How about a shower?”

She doesn’t answer and shifts as he sits down next to her, a hand curving against her scalp. “No. I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Eaten or taken medicine. Don’t remember when I last washed.”

He sighs. The sound makes her sit up, frowning, ignoring the throb in her head that grows stronger. “I know more than you what medicine does to the body, so don’t you sigh at me.”

He smiles softly, which is a killer, absolute _killer_ , and squeezes her shoulder. “When I was a kid, one of my foster mom’s had this great soup she’d make when O or I were sick,” he says and stands up. “Stay put, drink your tea, I’ll be right back.”

She grumbles under her breath as he goes away and focuses on the tv as she listens to him putter in the kitchen. She takes the mug in her hands and winces from the heat. It smells good, of her favorite tea. He must’ve seen the box of peach tea sitting on the counter where Jasper left it. A sip at first burns her tongue, but it feels good to have something hot and she blows before taking another sip. He must’ve put honey in as well, because she can feel it soothing the burning in her throat.

“Good,” Bellamy says sometime later, checking on her. “You’re drinking the tea.”

She nods sleepily. “I am.” He smiles and crouches so their faces are closer together. Clarke makes a face and brings her hands up to her face. “Don’t look.”

He moves the hand and cups her face in his cheeks, then smushing her cheeks forward. “Aww, look at the little baby,” he teases.

She pouts as best she can with her cheeks pushed forward by him. “I’m no baby.”

“All sick people are babies.” He peppers a few kisses on her forehead and nose.

Clarke sits still and allows him to coddle her. This actually feels nice. This coddling is nice and comforting; she smiles as he starts rubbing soothing circles on her cheeks, moving down to her neck. Her head starts bobbing and exhaustion starts creeping in. She had slept terribly.

“You look beautiful,” he says as her head falls onto his shoulder. “As stubborn as always.”

“Don’t lie,” she mumbles into his shoulder. He starts massaging her shoulders and the exhaustion continues to mount until she is breathing deeply on him, nearly asleep. He moves her back onto the couch and she mumbles as he pulls the blanket over her, maneuvering a pillow and it feels more comfortable.

 

 

When Clarke wakes, she’s in her bed, curtains drawn tightly closed and the room pitch black. Squinting around, she rubs her throat and sniffs in experiment. Her throat still bothers her, somewhat scratchy, but her nose feels better. Her head isn’t pounding as much as before. All are signs of recovery. She swings her legs over and goes to the curtain and peeks out. The sun is starting to set, clouds trailing and dyed pink and purple, the navy of the night sky starting to encroach on the dying light. She twitches the curtains back and cautiously exist her room.

“Bellamy?” she calls quietly, walking down the hallway. “You still here?”

There’s the sound of blankets moving, a thud, and then cursing. “Fuck, that hurt.” Clarke comes to the living room and stares at Bellamy, on the floor rubbing the side of his head. “Oh. You’re up.”

“You okay?” she asks, leaning on the back of the couch. “Sounds like it was a hard hit.”

He shrugs, sitting up and anxiously looks over her face before letting out a sigh of relief. “You look so much better.”

“I thought you said I looked beautiful,” she says with a pout, leaning over the couch, the top pressing into her belly. “Were you lying?”

He rolls his eyes and gets on his knees to be able to kiss her. “You were sick-beautiful then,” he says with a raised eyebrow and then kisses her once more. “You’re recovering-beautiful now.”

She laughs and kisses him back, a hand going to tangle in his curls, and nearly falls forward. She jerks back, hands grabbing the couch to keep balance. “Whoa,” she mumbles as her head starts to spin. “Recovering, but still not quite there.”

“Why don’t you take a shower, and I can make something to eat?” Bellamy suggests while standing. His hair is rumpled and there’s a line from drool, creases on his face. He looks— he looks good. He always looks good. How does he do that?

“Sure. Sounds good.”

It’s good to wash her hair and her body and when she emerges, hair wrapped up in a towel, she feels even better than before. Her throat still burns and her head throbs now and then, but it’s amazing how far a bit of cleanliness can go. Her dirty pjs go into the laundry hamper and she puts on sweats and an old t-shirt, ratty at the hem; her hair drips down her back and she towels it a bit to get as much moisture out as possible before leaving.

The apartment smells like chicken soup, but not Campbell’s chicken soup. This smells better. She follows her nose to the kitchen and sees Bellamy pouring water from the kettle into a mug. “Soups on the table,” he says with a glance over his shoulder. There are two bowls, steaming, broth an opaque yellowish color. She can see carrots at the surface, and maybe some celery as well?

“Looks good,” she says, sliding into a chair. She blows on a spoonful before swallowing. “Jesus,” she murmurs with a sigh. “This is delicious. Oh my god. Teach me the recipe. I’d eat this even when not sick.”

“No can do,” he says, bringing a mug of tea for her and a glass of water for him. “It’s a family secret and is only for times of illness. If you want to have it again, you’ll just have to get sick.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I bet you’ve made it other times.”

He shakes his head and swallows his own spoonful. “Nope. I swear,” he protests at Clarke’s doubtful look. “I promised years ago to use it only for healing, and I have kept that promise. I am not a promise-breaker.”

“Sure,” Clarke mutters and takes another sip. She’s starving, but can only finish little more than half the bowl.

“I’ll put it in the fridge,” Bellamy says, taking the bowl when she’s done and leaving before he’s finished himself.

“Such a good boyfriend,” she says, smirking at him when he gives her a disgruntled look. “Doing my dishes, making a super secret soup— you’ve gotta be the best boyfriend in town.”

“Whatever,” he says. She can hardly hear him over the running water, but his next question is uncomfortably clear. “Finn never did this?”

She reaches for her mug, more to have something in her hands than anything. “I never wanted him near me when I was sick. I’d tell him I was out of town and couldn’t meet up, or whatever excuse came to mind.”

Bellamy half turns, arm awkwardly stretched across his chest to keep from dripping. “He never…”

Clarke shrugs, cupping the mug and looking at the brown tea. It’s not hot anymore, but somewhere between that and warm. It’s a comfortable warmth, that good spot three feet from the fireplace. “No. We met in particular circumstances, and I always seemed to be this ideal woman to him. I didn’t want him to see me all gross— like you did.” It was one of the last galas she went to, now that she thinks about it. It reminds her of the one coming up, and how she’s been meaning to invite him. Is this the right time?

Bellamy turns the water off and towels his hands as he turns to her. “I can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad things.”

Clarke gives him a look. “Basically, I didn’t feel comfortable being me around him. I always dressed up for dates, full make-up, the whole shebang. I was insecure, and so many girls talk about how if you’re not comfortable letting him see you at your worst, he doesn’t deserve you at your best, but…” She can’t finish the sentence. It’s easy to see how her relationship with Finn wasn’t as perfect as she once believed it to be talking with Bellamy. It was perfect, because she tried to be perfect for him. She tried to change herself.

“I’m better, is what you’re saying,” Bellamy says with a grin. He puts the towel down and walks over to her, placing a hand one hand on the table, the other on the back of her chair, as he leans towards her.

She nods, shy, and bites her lip as she rubs her hands along the ceramic mug. “You are. You’re much better. There’s also your sister—” she adds, glancing up. His face is close and it’s natural to lean forward, kiss him, and then he’s taking the mug from her hand, placing it on the table. She’s putting weight on her feet, semi-hovering off her chair in order to reach him. He bends down a little closer, both of them pushing against each other, and this is tiring for both of them, Clarke is sure, so she stands. The table jostles, but the mug isn’t full enough to worry about it and she has her arms hooked around his neck.

He’s smart enough, she thinks, before giving a hop to hook her legs around his waist, and he does as she wants and supports her, hands on her lower back. It takes a moment, but soon one hand dips to curve against her ass and she breaks away from the kiss to breathe. Her heart is racing and Bellamy doesn’t waste a moment, moving to the nearest wall for support and going for her jaw, then neck.

“Wait,” she says, feeling a frame bite into her back. “Bellamy, wait.” He murmurs something into her skin and she arches towards him, but only feels the edges dig along her skin. “There’s a picture killing my back,” she says, hands moving to his hair. He makes some sort of assenting noise and it’s hard to try and stop this, but she really should because this is becoming more painful than pleasurable.

Her hands settle against his shoulders, heels of her hands near his collar bone, and _pushes_ as she untangles her legs. “That hurt,” she said, feet hitting the ground as he stumbles back. She stretches, shoulders rotating to find where the pain is. She moves away to indicate with a flourish the picture frame he had pushed her.

He doesn’t look completely settled, chest heaving and mouth swollen, open a little. She swallows. “Let’s go elsewhere?”

Bellamy stares at her a moment, before shaking his head wildly, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he says. “You’re sick. I shouldn’t’ve.”

“No, no,” she moves to reassure, a hand going to his shoulder and another grabbing the hand pulling at his hair.. “The soup did wonders. My throat’s still a bit off, but I’m much better. It’s fine.”

He gazes at her and moves to kiss her chastely. She finds herself moving after him as he pulls back away and then he presses their foreheads together. “I lost control,” he admits. “I—”

“You’ve been worried about Finn?” He grimaces and she smiles. “Don’t worry about it. He honestly doesn’t come close to comparing.”

“At least he doesn’t have a jail record.”

“Hey,” Clarke says sternly and moves her hand from shoulder to cheek to pinch the skin there. She pulls at it and kisses him when he rolls his eyes. “None of that. I don’t care, and it’s not like you’re a serial killer. And,” she says brightly. “You’re not a cheater. Right?”

He laughs gently. “Right.”

She brings her arms around his waist to hug him, stepping a little closer and buries her head in his chest. “You’re much better for me, which is why…” She bites her lip, presses her ear against his chest to see if she can hear his heart beat.

“Why what?” he asks, hands at her waist and pulling away.

“Well. The annual hospital gala is coming up and I was thinking of inviting you?”

“Hospital gala,” he repeats with a frown. “And you’re going, why?”

“My parents have always been big supporters of the hospital, and my mom wants me to go. So… I’m going. Did you want to come with?”

“I—” He pulls away and moves to the sink. His movements are methodical, measured, and she worries at her lip as he puts dishes in the dishwasher.

“You don’t want to go.”

He doesn’t reply and Clarke thumps into her seat as she waits. Her heart seems to beat louder with each moment and her eyes follow him as he finds where the tupperware are and puts the soup away.

“Bellamy?”

He turns to her, finally. His face is frightfully blank. “I don’t have any suits.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I don’t have any suits, any clothes for the occasion.”

“I—” She doesn’t know what to say and stares at him, mouth open, for far too long.

“My manners really aren’t that great,” he continues. “I’m going to embarrass you. I don’t have money, so it’s not like I can pay for anything, or— I don’t even know what happens at galas. They sound really pretentious.”

“So you’re not mad?” she asks faintly, hands curling into fists in her lap.

He frowns. “Why would I seem mad?”

“You— you went silent. You washed the dishes. I thought you were angry.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “I’m not.”

She stands. “So the only real problem is that you don’t have a suit?” she asks, crossing her arms across her chest. He leans against the cabinets and shrugs.

“I wouldn’t say it’s the only problem, but I guess it’s one of the largest.”

She laughs in relief. “Thank god. My dad has plenty of suits my mom’s never sold. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind letting you use one.”

“Will it fit?”

She eyes him and imagines her dad standing next to him. For a moment, her heart hurts dreadfully. Imagining them getting along is so easy to do. Her dad would have liked Bellamy, though he liked just about anyone she did. “You’re about the same height,” she says. “We’ll find something.” Then, she realizes. “God, that means you have to meet my mom. Shit.”

Bellamy’s forehead crinkles. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It depends on what sort of impression you make."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /falls down/
> 
> look what's finally happened!! with this chapter, I would like to announce that this fic is going on _hiatus_. it's not a permanent sort of thing, I'm just not as interested in this story line as I used to be! I plan on finishing this, but updates will be more sporadic; I'm also working on other fic right now, and there's also school to contend with. I'll be working on this fic on the sides, whenever I get inspiration, but it's pretty low right now. hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> as always, feel free to come and talk to me on [tumblr](serbellamy.tumblr.com)! if you want ideas of what's going to happen in the future, your own ideas for what happened, or, like whatever, idk, come talk to me!


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